


Army Spy: First Encounters

by chezchuckles



Series: Army Castle [1]
Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Army Castle, F/M, spy castle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 171,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26725162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chezchuckles/pseuds/chezchuckles
Summary: In this AU of Castle, JR Black is a military intelligence officer on furlough in NYC before he transitions to his new post as intelligence officer in the CIA. His father, John Black, keeps him close and well-trained, insisting on a special regimen known as the serum.But in New York, JR (known as Richard) finds himself fascinated with a woman he met in a bar. A woman he can't help following home.What's a young and hungry police officer supposed to do with a man who can't tell her his name?
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Series: Army Castle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945063
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first alternate iteration of the Spy Castle series: Army Spy. The idea crops up in a 'what if' scenario in Spy, as the two talk about what might have happened if they'd met in NYC when Castle was on furlough as a younger man.

The 75th Ranger Regiment (Airborne) filed into the mess tent one after another, a long grey line straight to the chow. They deserved it. Their elite light infantry special operations unit had secured an airfield outside Kandahar after sustaining heavy casualties in a tactical raid that had stretch on for five nights.

Second Lt. John Richard Black - called J.R. by his Army buddies, Richard only to those who knew him - remembered his supplement pill at the last minute and dug it out of the flap on his breast pocket.

Fuck, nearly missed it again. Sometimes he thought his father’s intense supplements were the only reason he survived these Special Forces missions.

He knocked back the horse pill dry and winced as it burned down his throat, but most everything burned. His lungs and windpipe were seared raw from the heat of the fire; they’d lost a 120-mm mortar in a prolonged and coordinated attack by insurgent forces, and the explosion had taken out half his squad.

His hands were steady though.

Ditch-digging tonight. He needed the heavy work, the strain across his back, and the sweat in the darkness. Plus the guys in his unit would be out plowing the field; he’d have nowhere to go and he didn’t want to be alone.

The Combat Outpost his unit had been assigned to tonight was already filled with similar squads, which made Richard think they’d been a concentrated surge against the Taliban this last week. And a lot of injured.

Richard snagged a meal tray and a fistful of milk cartons, moved quickly to a half-empty table. He’d discovered the secret to average was to balance the mix. Show up with the guys he led into battle but don’t lead their pranks, share a dirty joke and curse at the major, but don’t be one heading into town to touch the natives.

So he ate and he laughed at the right places and he elbowed his bunk-mate every time the poor kid’s ears burned, but inside he was roiling.

Half his fucking squad gone for a pissant airfield. He’d directed sixteen men going into this one but he’d only come back with seven. They’d been repeatedly denied reinforcements, and Richard had been close enough to the commanding officer to hear the man’s frustration when he’d called and called and been denied.

There’d been four squads, three of them elite light infantry units like his own, for a combined total of sixty-four men and if Richard had to estimate how many were left, he’d be too pissed to eat.

Half the squad. Of course, the guys at this table weren’t all from his LI unit, so they could joke and tell raunchy stories and slap each other around. His bunk-mate was a fresh-faced from Fort Benning who drove a Bobcat and studied civil engineering and whose quiet and crawling panic should’ve earned him a body bag.

Richard had probably saved the little fucker’s life five times in five days. He didn’t mind it, but it wasn’t exactly going along with the rules.

Never leave a trace behind.

Just then his CO came up at his shoulder and gave him a once-over. Richard straightened up and gave his salute, but Eastman shook his head. “With me, soldier.”

Richard grabbed his tray and followed Eastman to an empty table, sank down gratefully. His eyes touched on Eastman’s for a moment and then away, not wanting to invited questions.

“There’s a committee here,” his CO started. “Looking to pin a medal on you, Richard.”

“Captain,” he started, grinding his teeth. But he didn’t have words to convey his sense of doom. If his father heard of this, he was gonna get yanked. Not again. He was actually making a fucking difference here. He didn’t want this to be West Point all over again.

Fuck, West Point still made him furious. Even though he hadn’t been enrolled under his own name - whatever the fuck his own name even was - didn’t matter. He knew it. He knew he’d gotten pulled from West Point five days before graduation and in Richard’s mind - he wasn’t a graduate.

None of the guys in his squad knew he’d been either. Of course not. A few of them had known and entirely different guy by the name of Jack Hunt who’d been expelled before graduation, but if they told stories about his exploits, JR Black never heard them.

“I know you have reasons not to get pinned,” Captain Eastman said then. “I have reasons not to let you.”

Richard lifted his eyes to his CO, his face revealing none of the icy shock trickling through his body. “Yes, sir.”

“So we’re going to play it carefully. You talk to your bunk mate yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Don’t. If he starts in on the thanks for saving my ass shit, then you look at him like he’s grown a second head.”

“I got it. I know,” he growled back, then blanched and ducked his head. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

“Second Lt. Black, I will see you bright and early.” Captain Eastman left the table with his tray and carried it out of the mess hall. Richard sank down a little and hunched his shoulders, wanting no one and nothing to notice him.

But of course, he wasn’t given even a second. A squad of guys he didn’t know descended on the table, one of them giving a nod to the empty seats by way of asking. Richard jerked his head in negatory and they sat, calling out crass comments to each other and talking too loudly.

His squad didn’t disrespect like this. Richard didn’t like it. His eyes accidentally met the guy’s directly opposite him, and the florid-faced man gave him a flared nostril look in return. Spoiling for a fight. To be a big man.

But Richard wasn’t just an Army Ranger.

He had a mission.

Leave no trace behind , his father had drilled into him. Don’t be stupid like me.

Right. Stupid having a direct result in Richard’s own existence, he couldn’t quite manage to be gung-ho about his father’s fucking rules.

Still, he wasn’t picking a fight with the asshole across the table.

Suddenly the unruly crowd of combat soldiers went deathly quiet. Richard shifted in his seat and turned slowly, knowing without knowing exactly what he’d see.

At the front flap of the mess hall, Special Agent John Black strode into view.

“Fuck, that’s the doc,” a guy next to him whispered. “Don’t he look like Mr Death himself?”

Richard stayed still, let nothing cross his face. Doc? He didn’t know what cover his father had donned tonight, but it was his job to be ready, to listen and hear his moment.

Black came to the head table and spread his palms out wide. “Soldiers. Men. I’m asking for volunteers.”

Richard kept his head down, clenching his fist around his fork.

“We have a new program. A series of experiments offering holistic medicines and herbal supplements. I need sixteen - a brand new squad - to offer themselves. Hazard pay is time and a half plus I’ve already witnessed the benefits personally - endurance, retention, muscle strength and tone are markedly improved, faster reaction times, and - of course - increased stamina.”

A hoot went out - probably almost involuntarily, so conditioned were these men to bawdy double meanings - but Richard saw his father smile indulgently and encourage the impression. Increased stamina.

“I need my squad of sixteen,” Black said into the nervous laughter. “I need men who want to make a difference in the elite fighting forces.”

“Hell fucking no,” the guy beside Richard whispered. “Army’s always getting hamstered.”

“You mean guinea pigged, you fucking idiot.”

“Whatever. Same thing. I ain’t taking no new herbal tea shit just so they can study me as I get the runs. Probably be shitting when my bullet catches up to me.”

There was laughter at Richard’s table and as he glanced around the room, he saw the same lack of willingness to be a volunteer for poking and prodding.

Fuck. This was the mission?

Richard sighed and got to his feet, stood slowly because, despite the pill he’d popped, he was tired.

Not in his body, but in his soul.

Tired.

“Got me,” he called out, his voice booming in the quiet. “You think you can improve on perfection?”

The mess hall roared with laughter and good-natured teasing, but Richard felt one pair of eyes on him, malignant and pissed at being shown up. And this time, not his father.

“I volunteer,” the guy sitting across from him said, standing like a king. “And so does my unit.”

“Aw, fuck.”

But they stood, all nine of them, and Richard noted their faces with increased study. He’d volunteered because they always needed an icebreaker, someone to go ahead and do it. And besides, Richard was already taking these herbal supplements and the shots and all of it. He knew it worked - he was living proof. So it was no skin off his nose if Black wanted to orchestrated some elaborate set up to get it field tested.

Richard and the other guys who’d volunteered followed Black out of the mess to infirmary. In the distance overhead, Apache attack helicopters raced towards a far corner of Afghanistan. But inside this one Combat Outpost, JR Black had fulfilled his duty.

Too bad. He’d wanted to stay out there, do the real fighting on the ground. If he knew his father, this experiment would do six months of training drills before disbanding and disappearing.

And Second Lt JR Black along with it.

\-----

Never leave a trace behind.

Well, it had worked. A little too well.

The son of Special Agent John Black sat hunched in the booth at the back of the room, his eyes sweeping and scanning the bar, cataloging every movement, unable to let go of battle-ready, combat alert.

He had no name, no passport, no driver’s license. He’d been an Army Ranger six months ago, but then his father had terminated the project when half the squad went AWOL after the rest had committed suicide. Yet, he was still here, ticking along without a problem, popping supplements like candy and drinking his gallon and a half of water like a good boy. He’d been trained to follow orders, and he didn’t see much reason not to.

It worked for him. Had worked.

He had no name now but it had once been Richard. Most people didn’t know that one, though his CO, Captain Eastman, must have been CIA Special Operations because he had known the truth. Eastman had let him go with a sigh, told him not to deal New York City too much damage.

Richard was on the hunt. For what, he had no idea. He just needed something… other. A taste of it. Just for a week, a week to stop looking and moving and answering like an Army Ranger, and then he’d be stationed in Ireland for a long-term mission, back to operative assignments where his father needed his services.

He wasn’t looking forward to Ireland, but he couldn’t go back to the Army either. It didn’t hold the appeal it once had, after the Towers had fallen, to get out there and do something about the evil in the world. Not when the guy he stared down the rifle scope loved his kids and kissed his wife, and the only intel Richard had on him was a word from some bureaucrat.

Not when half his unit had never gotten back-up, out there stranded, abandoned. No bureaucrat in sight.

Richard had been taught by the best at West Point, and in Afghanistan, he’d seen every wrong move and every shit tactical decision that went against the best ideas of commanders on the ground, not to mention his CIA training, and he just couldn’t go back to following orders.

“Soldier,” the waitress said, coming around with his drink. She placed the tumbler of Scotch on the scarred wood and nodded as she left, not bothering to force him into conversation. He appreciated that at least.

He never drank. Another rule he hadn’t cared enough about to break until now. His father never drank, and so Richard had never touched it until West Point. In order to blend in, he’d started a habit with his friends of drinking just enough. He’d acquired the officers’ taste - Scotch on the rocks. He swirled it around the glass now, watching the amber diffuse across the ice.

He took a long swallow and let it burn.

It was enough. He’d nurse it for a few hours, he decided, and then he’d find the CIA safe house near Harlem, sleep long enough to forget upon waking where he was.

Right. That never happened. Still, it’d be nice to try. Sleep so hard and so long that when he came to in the darkness, for just a moment he could be anywhere at all.

He remembered that feeling, that disorientation upon waking. He’d been five and his father had stuck him in a bunk house on the training grounds at Clayton that Christmas break. He’d woken alone, no understanding of where he’d been, no clue or hints in the darkness, only the starched sheets under his cheek. He’d been with his father for a week by that time and the sense of maybe it was all a dream had been so fierce that the sensation had been pleasant and appealing.

If he could do that again, he thought maybe his life would make sense for him.

He wasn’t a kid any longer. He wasn’t even a fresh-faced recruit or an Army Ranger on a mission; he was a 32 year old guy whose whole point of existence was Leave no trace behind.

It was fucking him up a little. He just needed a week to be nothing and no one before he dove into Ireland and Foley again. He couldn’t forget what Colleen had done to him there on his very first mission out of training years ago, and though he’d matured since then, figured out his shit, he couldn’t help feeling like he was doomed to repeat his past.

And then the door opened and summer sun walked right inside the bar.

Doomed had a whole new meaning.

—–

She stepped inside like she owned the place, but he saw - because he was trained to see - that she wore her confidence like armor and below that, in the glints of green in those brown eyes, she wanted nothing more than to not be here.

In this bar.

She approached the bartender with a discreet tuck of her hand into his, and Richard watched the man glance at the paper he’d been palmed. She had worked the exchange professionally, even if the bartender had not, and Richard admired the skill.

She wasn’t a professional, he didn’t think, but it did make him pause.

Middle twenties, early side, probably twenty-four. Young enough to be cautiously optimistic, old enough to think she’d seen it all. Dark hair pulled back into a pony tail in deference to the heat, a sleeveless shirt with a long v-neck so that those tantalizing glimpses no doubt smoothed her way in any conversation with the opposite sex.

Her jeans were well-worn but her shoes were black boots with heels that were expensive and probably recently purchased. She had the look of a woman who was outside frequently - summer kissed and golden - but she wasn’t rough around the edges. Smooth, polished, sophisticated. He was getting two different vibes from her: both well-bred New York money with a promising career in the law or medicine, and also a former street rat who had been starved for opportunity.

One led to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, the other led to crime. Or.

Police work.

Ah, that was it. She was a cop. A fresh cop, because she didn’t quite know how to hold herself when she wasn’t carrying heat, and because she had made an effort with her civvies. Hair, make-up, lip gloss so that those pale, pink lips shone. She didn’t smile; she didn’t look like she had many smiles left in her today. But her eyes were alert.

They caught his and held. He studied her. She studied him, unflinchingly, assessing, and then she must have seen the army on him, because she forgot him and looked away.

He somehow didn’t want her dismissing him so easily.

He watched her because she had dismissed him, and she didn’t even bother trying to lower her voice or keep it private; she spoke at a normal volume, designed to wash away in the white noise of the bar.

But Richard heard. He always did.

“I’m sure you know him,” the woman resumed. “I know you know him, Trout. He talks about you. So please, when he comes in-”

“I’m not refusing him,” the bartender said. (His name was Trout? How awful. Score one for living under the name of a legend.) “If he comes in here and wants a drink, I’m serving him. No right telling a man he can’t drown his sorrows.”

“Don’t be a cliche,” she muttered. “All I’m saying is that you call me. When it’s bad. Call me and not the taxi service, not the guys patrolling this block, not his asshole friend, George.”

“George is-”

“I’m telling you - I’m not asking you,” she cut in. “You call me. I don’t want my father in the tank again.”

The tank. She was a cop; she used cop lingo and she knew how to get around the guys on patrol. Richard put his elbows on the table and lifted his drink, swirled it around and around, studying her instead of the Scotch.

She was amber on ice herself.

And much more interesting, especially since he seemed unable to get drunk.

“Fine, fine, fine,” the bartender said, throwing up a hand to ward her off. He waved the piece of paper in front of her face and then turned around, tacking it to the corkboard just behind his head. “I’ve got your number, sweetheart.”

He saw her face ripple with it, that instinctive fuck you for the casual tossed-off endearment. But she swallowed it down and thanked the bartender, backed away from the wood. As she did, she shot him a hot, frustrated look, as if he were allowed to see it even if the bartender couldn’t. As if Richard were safe.

He didn’t want to be safe. But he did want… something.

She turned and left the bar, her pony tail stiff and not swinging an inch, but her hips moving probably in spite of herself, giving him a glimpse of how good it could be.

She slid her sunglasses down on her head and moved up the sidewalk and out of sight.

He sat there for five seconds, the longest he’d ever been indecisive, and then he jerked to his feet and strode towards the bar. Trout gave him a bleary what the hell do you want kind of glance and Richard pushed right past him and out with one long look at that board.

He’d memorized her name, her number, and her address.

Kate.

\-----

He followed her.

He was that good.

She paused at Wall Street and did a head-check - oh, she was good too, but he was better. She crossed the street and doubled back, those smart, savvy glances at every pedestrian she passed, but he wasn’t a pedestrian.

He was the hunter.

She did it again at Pine, making a circuit back to Wall Street, checking her tail. She was more paranoid than most, which made him wonder, and she was careful about her paranoia.

A woman after his own heart. Kate.

She scrubbed a hand through her hair only to mess up the pony tail, and so she jerked the rubber band down and shook her hair out. It was stained more dark than cherry, and her eyes flickered over the oncoming traffic. The pony tail had been a carefully executed arrangement, he saw, because her hair was chopped short and spiky like her anger.

Richard anticipated her next move and crossed the street just ahead of her; she jaywalked fast and came up on the opposite sidewalk still looking.

He’d have to avert his eyes for a while; she had a sixth sense about his study of her and she had a better sense of direction than he did, despite his Army orientation training. She was walking too quickly now, her head up and her chin fierce like she expected trouble.

He turned at the next block and let her pass him; he watched her stride away, her hands in fists and her hair bristling at her shoulders. It was like a hook in his guts, that walk of hers, and he didn’t want to have to let her go.

But he had her address, and he knew her name. And he was going to run into her later.

Sooner, rather.

—–

Richard managed it that evening, a crowded subway platform and the scent of her body close to his. She was spice and citrus, which made him guess coffee and an orange for a snack when she had missed her lunch break. The brush of her body against his on the platform was electric.

She had actually turned her head to look, but he was already disappearing into the morass. He stepped onto her car when the doors peeled back, and she stood near the front, her eyes resolutely scanning the commuters as they flowed in past her. Richard arranged himself to stand away from her so that the crowd pushed him towards her naturally, both jostling for space and issuing apologies when they bumped.

He turned his head like he hadn’t seen her and he felt her eyes on him, calculating. His body was primed but he kept it relaxed, easy, a trick he’d learned in military school with the bullies, and she seemed marginally relieved.

He let her study of him draw his attention back to her, like he could feel her gaze on him, and instead of blushing and averting her eyes, she only straightened her shoulders and gave him a measuring glance.

Her lips thinned. “You following me?”

He turned his head as if he thought she were speaking to someone behind him, and then he shifted his attention to her once more, a questioning hand to his chest.

She relaxed - slightly, fractionally - and waved it away. “I saw you before.”

“Me?” he asked, letting the word rumble out of his mouth. He already knew she’d never warm up to his usual charm; she was different. She wouldn’t fall for his usual lines because she wasn’t looking for meaningful, and she sure as hell didn’t need a connection.

But maybe he did.

“You,” she said, affirmatively. So damn confident. Anyone else confronted with his polite negation would have dropped it. But not her.

He puzzled it out, let it show on his face, and then he reached up for the bar overhead, pretending he needed the stabilization to his balance as the train went around the track. But he let his hand glance so close to her body, so very close, that he could read her half-second’s reaction to a purposeful touch - she didn’t flinch, but she would tear his head off if he tried for more.

Oh, he wanted to try for more. By the end of this encounter, he wanted to touch her hair.

Now it was a goal.

“Ah,” he said slowly, nodding like he’d remembered. “At the bar.”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head and let some of his cards show. “You were talking about your father?”

“Do you know him?”

“Know who?” he asked, miming confusion. He found it more and more difficult to keep up the usual act. Average man, leave no trace behind. “Oh, do I know your father. No, I don’t. I just heard you tell the bartender to call you.”

“I didn’t say he was my father.”

“You did,” he answered, as self-assured as she’d been. She actually hadn’t; it’d been a very well-educated guess by a professional undercover operative formerly for Military Intelligence and now operating under the purview of the CIA.

She watched him another long second, as if she could somehow sense that, and then the train lurched and went dark around another corner, going fast. He saw the opportunity to fumble into her, but he couldn’t do that either.

He was tired of playing games.

“You looked determined,” he said then. “Why I noticed.”

“And eavesdropped,” she commented, a lift of an eyebrow in the emergency lights.

He held out his hand to shake. “I’m Richard. And you were talking in a normal voice. It wasn’t eavesdropping.”

She regarded his hand thoughtfully and then she shook with him. “Kate. But you know that.”

“I might have looked,” he gave over, impressed by her all over again. “I was curious.”

“You struck me as particularly and purposefully not curious at the bar.”

“I have a habit of appearing that way.”

She chuffed, a breath of air through her lips that might actually have been laughter. He was floored. She looked radiant when the amusement had a chance.

“Are you following me?” she said then. She was serious now, not quite so combative, her eyes holding a great and gaping wound. “Are you from my father’s law firm?”

“Oh, love,” he sighed. “You give out too much information.” He had to resist the fierce urge to take her in his arms. “No, I’m not. Is he in trouble? And you’re going around trying to pick up the pieces.”

She flinched then and her eyes darted away, but she didn’t shuffle backwards. She only swallowed and gripped the metal bar more tightly. She seemed, now, more determined than ever to avoid him, mentally if she couldn’t physically.

He wished it had gone better for him. She was too much; he couldn’t give enough. She needed things he wouldn’t be able to provide, and the worst of it was she didn’t even know she needed them.

So Richard reached out and closed his fingers around a strand of her hair, couldn’t help himself. Didn’t want to help himself.

It might be the last chance he got.

—–

Richard didn’t see it coming, but he reacted.

She slapped his hand away, simultaneously brought her knee up into his groin. Richard barely caught the sharp angle of her patella before she could follow through, and he gripped her hard with his fingers, holding her knee up on the crowded subway train inches from his crotch.

She didn’t even rock; kept her balance without missing a beat. He had her by the back of her knee with one hand, and he shook out the other where she’d twisted his wrist before he’d pulled it back.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“I didn’t see that coming,” he murmured, furrowing his brow as he studied her. How had she done that?

“You should have,” she growled back. She leaned in and made him take all of her weight, her eyes flinty on his, shuttered against him. “What did you think would happen?”

“Knock my hand away. Slap my face. Even pull a punch,” he mused, studying her.

“You did? A punch. Think about it, Rick.” The way she said ‘Rick’ left no doubt that she meant dick. “Can’t get the momentum needed to punch you hard enough to do damage in a crowded train.”

He grinned, knew the wolf was on his face. Couldn’t help it. “Good point. It’d be a poor strategy, a punch in crowded car. I should’ve known you’d know better.”

“Why? Because you know me? You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to,” he murmured, barely giving it voice. It was true though, and he didn’t even know why. He flexed his fingers behind her knee, realized his thumb was making circles over her bone. He jerked back, dropping her leg suddenly, and she had to catch herself against the pole, her eyes startling to his.

“You’re not a private investigator?” she said quietly.

“No. No, I’m not.”

She turned her head away from him; he saw her chewing on the inside of her cheek, her eyebrows knitted together. “You’re a cop?”

But she must not believe that either, because when he hesitated - fuck, he never hesitated what was wrong with him? - she turned her eyes back to him, one slim eyebrow raised.

“No? Not a cop. Not a PI. But you have the defensive skills of a trained…” She trailed off, recognition in her eyes. “I thought so. When I saw you in the bar. You on leave, soldier?”

On leave. In a manner of speaking. “Yeah,” he said roughly. The half-lie came hard; the truth wanted out, wanted past the cover story he was already weaving through the facts, stitching a plausible story together.

“When do you ship out?” she said. Her eyes were… intrigued?

“I’ve got a week on my leave.”

“Oh?” Her lips smirked up.

Holy shit. She was not.

She was.

Up for it.

He gripped the metal railing and suddenly, fucking her wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. “Please accept my humblest apologies for touching you-”

“Oh, right,” she smirked.

“And to offset any possible harassment charges against the Army Rangers, would you do me the honor of allowing me to buy you dinner?”

The amusement fell off just minimally; some of the natural reserve and paranoia leaked back into her face.

He was losing her.

Why? How did they go from how much time have you got, sailor? to what am I doing with this stranger?

Richard felt the sway of the train as it pulled into the station, the finality of the moment. She looked away and his heart sank; without thinking, he brought his hands up and gripped her elbows, stepping in too close, too much.

“Dinner, Kate,” he whispered. She couldn’t possibly have heard him, not with the screech and jerk of the train, the grumble of commuters moving for the doors. She couldn’t have heard it at all, but his grip on her arms communicated it nonetheless.

“Buy me dinner,” she echoed. Her eyes lifted to his and something of that smile came back, warped though it was. She didn’t want to, but she was anyway, as if she couldn’t stop herself.

Richard slipped his hand down her inside arm to her palm, wrapped his fingers around hers. Cool and slim, strength in her grip that made his chest tighten. “Come with me,” he husked. “I know a place.”

The subway doors opened and the crowd crushed around them, but he drew her hand up to his chest and led the way off the car, keeping her close.

\-----

She hadn’t let him keep her hand. Of course not. And though Richard hadn’t wanted to let her go, he wanted more for her to stay, so he loosened his grip and let her fingers fall away from his.

Now that it was dark, he felt more at ease on the streets out here. The resolution on surveillance cameras was pretty poor.

She walked at his side out of the subway, and he could see her concentrating on the neighborhood and the city block, trying to puzzle out where he was taking them. She wasn’t a woman who released her control, and it must grate on her nerves that he wouldn’t tell her.

Not enough to leave him, but enough that she kept throwing out guesses.

“Indian?” she said. “You’ve been a lot of places around the world and now you’re addicted to spicy curry.”

He grinned. “Nope.”

“Not addicted or haven’t been a lot of places?”

“Well. Actually. You’re right on both.”

“Ha!” She celebrated her victory by poking her finger in his shoulder. “Got you.”

“What can I say? I like spicy curry. And Army Rangers see a lot of action.”

“Oh, really?” she smirked.

He nearly choked on his next words, blinking as he looked over at her.

“Oh, come on,” she snorted. “What do you think we’re doing here, soldier?”

“Dinner.”

She gave him a swift look of confusion, shook her head. Her hair brushed her cheeks and made her eyes look suddenly leaf-green even in the too-white street lights. She had a confidence to her that nearly fooled him, that sometimes did fool him, and he thought maybe it was a case of fake it till you make it.

“You think we’re doing something more?” he asked. He put enough flippancy and charm in his voice that it was over the top, insinuating, seductive even. Just what she’d been looking for.

She snorted and shoulder-bumped him, a slow smile just prodding the corners of her mouth. She didn’t want to like him, he realized suddenly. She didn’t want to get attached.

“Well, then,” she smirked. “Dinner for starters, soldier. We’ll see how good you are.”

His father would like her attitude and her bravado, her tough exterior and quick skills, how she didn’t take his shit. Leave no trace behind. But Richard didn’t want to think about his father; he wanted to leave a trace. He wanted to leave a mark.

He wanted to mark her, leave the impression of his passing somewhere on her so that when she looked in the mirror, she’d remember him, she’d want him.

He had no one, but more importantly, no one had him - and suddenly, without warning or explanation, that wasn’t good enough.

But it couldn’t be just anyone who had him; it would have to be her.

“Kate Beckett,” he said slowly, making her head turn to catch his words. “It’s whatever you want to make of it. I have a week on leave. All of it is yours.”

She raised both eyebrows and he knew it’d been too much.

Her hand came up and smoothed down the material of his black t-shirt over his shoulder. “I don’t have a week to give you, soldier.”

“Then dinner is all I ask.”

\-----

“Vegan?” she said, twisting on the spot to stare at him. “You’re taking me for vegan. Do I look like a girl who eats tofu?”

He was rooted to the sidewalk by her acidity. “I eat vegan.”

“You do not,” she scoffed.

He frowned. “I’m Special Forces.”

Beckett put her hands on her hips. “So?”

For the first time in nearly fifteen years, Richard had no idea what to say to that.

She dropped her hands and her body shifted away from him, a flash of something he didn’t understand going through her. “You’re serious. What the fuck does vegan have to do with being Special Forces?”

“Clean body, clean kill.”

She tilted her head. “Are you kidding me?”

“Kidding about what?”

“Richard - Rick,” said almost laughing. And no one had ever called him Rick. He was entranced, even while she laughed. “I mean, this isn’t… okay, all right. I’ll give it a go. Vegan. I’m sure they have veggie burgers.”

He stared after her as she yanked open the door, strode inside without him. He didn’t understand what had just happened; the motto was sound. Of course, the Army gave the soldiers shit MRE’s to eat every day, simply because it was more cost-effective, but they were loaded with supplements and vitamins and a balanced diet. All the guys had their own thing - menus or superstition, didn’t matter - they all worshipped at the temple of their bodies.

He was more than just an Army Ranger though - he was Special Services under the CIA. And as such, he’d given Beckett too much information, too much jarring information, pieces that didn’t fit.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Showing her he was vegan.

“It’s not in philosophy,” he hurriedly explained, following her inside the local ethnic place. The owners were Iranian, he saw, and he scoured their reactions to be sure nothing pinged their radar about him. He’d heard a story - a legend - about how his father had come back from the Vietnam War and found a fucking criminal war lord right in New York City, operating a laundry service with his cousin.

But the Iranians were fine; he’d only been in Iran for four months anyway, immediately after his service in Afghanistan.

“Not in philosophy?” Kate echoed. “Then what the hell is it for?”

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t think it’s you,” she shrugged.

He stopped in the middle of the restaurant, a thigh knocking against a cheap wooden chair, arrested by the casual way she’d said that. She was starting towards the counter to order. “Wait.”

“What?” She paused just head of him, her face blank of all expectation.

“Not this,” he said quickly, glancing back at the couple manning the counter. “It’s not me? Then what is me? Where did you think I’d go?”

“Spicy curry?” she murmured, slowly turning to him. She hesitated for a second and then she came back for him; this time she was taking his hand, squeezing his fingers as she led him out of there. “I know exactly what you need.”

—–

He paused on the sidewalk before the long glass windows, not liking the clear line of sight to the booths inside. His guts churned with something he labeled instinct but was probably more just nerves.

She was making him nervous and he suddenly had expectations for their encounter that he hadn’t had when he’d stood and followed her out of that bar. She was throwing off his game, but strangely enough, she seemed to like him better off his game.

“Come on. Stop dragging your feet.” She tugged on his hand and nodded towards the door. “Jewish deli. Best food in Manhattan, I swear. Cabbage rolls to die for. Or - kill, as the case may be.”

He gave her a weak smile and followed her inside, but he couldn’t reconcile sitting in those booths with the glass - it wasn’t even frosted. The place was making his palms sweat as they stood in line - right at the front too, with those big wide windows open to the summer sky. And snipers.

He rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to ignore it; he had a week off and she wanted to take him to dinner at a place she thought was more like him. After a barbed conversation on a twenty-minute subway ride and a jaunt up a few dozen blocks to a Jewish deli.

“You see anything you like?” she said, sotto voce, so that it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck in that really good way. She had a bedroom voice, this woman did, and he wanted to step into her body heat.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

“Menu’s up there, Richard,” she said with a laugh. He realized he’d been scanning the restaurant. At least she hadn’t caught him checking out her ass.

Fuck, she had a tight ass. He was struggling with an intense and immediate response to her. She seemed to know it, too.

“Order for me,” he said suddenly. “You pick.”

She huffed a laugh but she turned back around, giving him another glimpse of her ass in those jeans, the width of her hips perfect for his hands. He restrained himself because he didn’t want another knee in the groin - or some other move he might not see coming - and he made do with stepping closer.

She smelled like summer. Like lemonade, sour and sweet, like the faint memory he still held of Central Park under the trees, the cool green shade. He closed his eyes and breathed.

The windows didn’t matter. She mattered.

“Two Stuffed Cabbage plates,” she said clearly. He opened his eyes and she was already at the deli counter, her body a clean and gorgeous line against the white. Easy to pick out, pick off. “And can I add potato cakes? Thanks. Rick, what do you want to drink?”

She turned to him expectantly and he realized she was calling him. Rick. And not sarcastically, just calling for him.

Not JR, not Richard, but Rick.

He stepped up behind her, felt the natural curve of her body and sensed immediately how it would fit with his. “Water,” he scraped out.

“Can you please include a glass of red?” she added. She gave him a look over her shoulder and then turned back to the man behind the counter. “Two actually.”

He made a noise of protest but she lifted a hand and shut him up.

“You’ll want it. Trust me.”

He let her. He let her. He was still dazzled by that when she moved over to the register and pulled out a thin wallet from her back pocket, slid a credit card from its depths. He hadn’t even - how had he not caught her hand sooner? Richard grasped her wrist and shook his head, reaching into the back pocket of his cargo pants for cash.

“No, I can pay for my fucking dinner, Richard.”

“No credit cards,” he murmured. He handed over two twenties and waved off the change, took the glasses of wine the cashier gave him instead. Beckett collected two bottles of water and guided them towards an empty booth, still giving him that assessing look.

Trying to figure him out.

But the booth wouldn’t work. He stalled. “How about…” He searched the crowded deli with a rising sense of horror, but there at the back, he found salvation - a cramped table. “There. How about that one? Cozy.”

“Huh.” She might still be put out with him for paying in cash.

“Come on,” he said confidently, breezing past her for the table away from the windows. He saw her scanning the restaurant when he sat down and then a certainty settled over her face that didn’t bode well for him. She pressed their order number into the metal ring on its pole, took a glass of wine from him.

Her knees knocked into his under the small table and he was proud of his choice. Got her closer. Much closer. When she leaned into the table with her elbows, she was practically in his lap. He settled his forearms onto the table as well, lifted a finger to trace the vein in her wrist.

She was ignoring his move. “You just got off a tour of duty,” she said calmly. “You’re still jumpy. Twitching like a man who’s seen combat.”

He scowled.

She laughed and her lips made this vivid smile that kicked his heart. “Don’t get defensive, soldier. Just remarking.”

“I’m not jumpy.” He wasn’t actually; he was just extremely aware of the tendency of those in his job to fall at the least likely moment: dining in a restaurant on a week off, skiing in Colorado with the kids and blonde wife, asleep in a hotel in Istanbul with guards keeping watch just outside. “I’m alert.”

“And unwilling to sit by the windows,” she said. Her mouth reached into that smile again and God she was breathtaking.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurted out.

She lifted an eyebrow.

If it was still physically possible for him to blush, he’d be doing it. But his father had trained it out of him years ago. “And I’d do anything for that smile. Even walk into a restaurant full of windows.”

She pressed her lips together, trapping her smile into a line. “You think you’re so smooth.”

He sighed. “That wasn’t a line, love.”

Just then a teenaged waitress came up to their cramped table with a round tray balanced on her shoulder. She settled it to her forearm and began clunking down plates, cabbage rolls and those potato cake things Beckett had asked for.

He stared down at their food.

Beckett laughed and the delight in the sound made him glance up for just a sight of it.

He sighed; there it was. That smile. The real one. The one he’d thought she didn’t have any left to give. But whatever she had, she was giving it to him.

“Stunning,” he breathed. He circled his fingers along her wrist bone and then left her alone, unrolling his fork and knife, determined to focus his next incursion on only his food.

\-----

“You’re twenty-two,” he yelped. The potato cake fell off his fork, delicious, scrumptious thing, but he couldn’t quite focus on the food any longer.

“Keep your voice down,” she muttered. “Twenty-three in November.”

“Holy fuck,” he gasped, sitting back from the table. “I’m ten years older than you.”

“So?”

“So, I hope to fucking hell that your father isn’t drinking tonight. Because if he knew how I’d been thinking about you all through dinner, he’d wipe the floor with me.”

She didn’t seem to think that was funny, but she seemed willing to roll right past it. “How - exactly - have you been thinking of me?”

“Lustfully,” he said blandly. His honesty had worked for him so far. “Undressing you with my eyes, among other things.”

She choked on something that might have been a laugh. “Well, for your sake, let’s hope he’s not out drinking.”

Oh, shit. Because then she’d have to go pick up her father. Fuck, he’d put his foot in his mouth on that one. Not what he’d meant. Only that he didn’t hit drunk guys and her father - shit. What a clusterfuck. “I’d like to meet him,” he said quickly.

She shot him a scalding, big mistake buddy, and stabbed at her potato cake with her fork. “Well, he doesn’t need to fucking meet you. In fact, you’re right. You two would definitely not get along.”

Why that stung so much, he had no idea. “Of course not. I’m a thirty-two year old man gazing lustfully at his twenty-two year old daughter.”

“That too,” she said breezily. Her eyes raked over him from across the table. “But that’s exactly why I’m letting you.. as you called it… gaze lustfully.”

“Oh?” he murmured. He loved when her voice dropped like that, how it rasped.

“You are not the same,” she chuckled. “My parents were defense attorneys. Big shot defense attorneys. They did pro bono work all the time.”

Were?

“You know,” she went on, “bleeding heart liberals. Not really the Army’s thing, Rick.”

He blinked, diverted from that were attorneys back to the sharp spark in her eyes when she called him Rick. He really liked that. “Oh, not true, Officer Beckett. I saw plenty of bleeding hearts in the Army.”

She lifted an eyebrow and a forkful of cabbage roll, her lips pale and alluring around the utensil.

“Sure,” he said, “eight of my guys were bleeding hearts on that last tour. Of course, to be fair, a mortar blew them to pieces so most of their body parts were bleeding.”

She dropped her fork.

It clattered off the table and to the floor in a strange dead space of complete silence in the deli so that everyone turned and looked at them.

He closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. “Ignore me.”

“Holy shit.”

“Forget I said that. I’m not supposed to say that.”

“Holy. Shit. Rick.”

“You were eating. Let me get you a new fork.” He jolted to his feet, rocking the table and making their wine slosh in the glasses. He’d had one sip only - at her insistence - so he couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol. (Not that alcohol ever affected him.)

He escaped to the front register and asked for a clean fork, standing stupidly as he waited for the woman to hand him a new one. As he went back to the table, slowly, he got a handle on his control and psyched himself up for finishing the meal.

Hopefully in silence. Even if it was awkward, better than having to try to explain how he couldn’t explain, or worse, just not answering her questions.

When he sat down, he handed her the fork without looking. But she wrapped her fingers around his wrist instead. He glanced up at her and everything had dropped off her face, all of the amusement and humor and sarcasm. Gone.

“You hurt my feelings, talking about my father, and so I tried to hurt you back. But I struck something deeper than I meant.”

“So did I,” he rasped. “About your father.”

She nodded shortly and released his hand, taking the fork, and he realized then that none of that had been an apology. And yet.

He wanted to know what had happened to make her parents no longer be bleeding heart liberals, why they used to be defense attorneys but weren’t any more. The drinking? Something bigger?

“How about we agree to avoid my father and your time in the service?” she said then. She poked her fork across the table and speared one of his pieces of potato cake, pushed it into her mouth. She grinned at him as she savored the bite, her lips making the effort.

It was too bad; he really would like to know about her father - all the things she wanted to avoid. “All right,” he agreed.

It was the only way. Maybe later, if he touched on his subject, she’d share something of hers.

—–

(rated M)

“Dinner was good,” he said. They were standing on the sidewalk near the bus stop; she had propped one shoulder against the pole and was watching him from a distance that seemed insurmountable. “Thanks for expanding my horizons.”

She gave him one of her reserved smiles, a Mona Lisa smile, that said she had secrets and horizons he couldn’t fathom. He wasn’t sure why he felt like the inexperienced one around her.

“Vegan,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Go figure.”

“Well, I’ll have to make an exception for cabbage rolls. And heavily buttered potato cakes.”

“Not too often,” she said, her glance flicking down over him. “Be a shame to spoil that body.”

He let the corner of his mouth lift into an answering smile. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Beckett, and that really intrigues me - not often I can’t read someone like a book - so I’m just gonna put it out there. I like you. You’re hot. You seem to like me too. Want to get coffee and see where this goes?”

“I know where this goes,” she said slowly. She straightened up from the pole and took a step towards him. Her fingers came out and plucked at his shirt, barely brushing his abs. “You know where this is going too, don’t you?”

His mind was crowded with sudden and erotic fantasies. His cock was stirring again, as it had all during dinner every time she opened her mouth, but at least half of those fantasies hadn’t even involve her naked.

Half of them were walking hand in hand with her down the street, in public, no watching over his shoulder.

“Rick,” she husked. She stepped closer again, and now he felt the heat of her even in the muggy evening, the heavy arousal that sat between them. “We both know where this is going.”

And then she kissed him.

His mouth opened for hers, and her lips were a raw caress. Her tongue was quick and careful, aggressive but elusive, so that when he thought he knew the taste of her, the feel of her against him, she was something else, something darker, richer, more desperate.

He slid his palms down her back and into the waistband of her jeans, the tips of his fingers resting just at her ass. Her hips jumped at the touch, he caught a little moan that she tried to smother, and he tugged her closer.

When their bodies met, he gasped a breath that wouldn’t come, knocked his forehead into hers to separate their kiss, control himself. She nudged his nose and put her teeth to his jaw, sucked at his skin. Her bite along his scruff made him grunt, his whole body winding tight with awareness, and he’d never had anyone get to him so fast.

“I think we gotta - gotta slow this down,” he rasped. “Not on the sidewalk.”

“You inviting yourself over to my place?” she murmured. Her tongue darted to his ear and his knees went weak; he had to grip her hips to keep from dropping.

“I - I’m… we could go to a hotel,” he muttered, confused by her, scrambled up completely. She tasted like heavy cream, she tasted taboo, and he wanted to know what her skin tasted like where it was softest, what she smelled like when she was wet for him.

“Hotel. Wow. Way to kill the mood.” Her fingers pinched his ear and he yelped, jerking away from her, staring at the sardonic roll of her eyes.

“Kill the… oh, I didn’t mean - I don’t have a place,” he offered. “Well, no, that’s not true. I’m borrowing a place. It’s pretty bare. No food. No-”

“I have a place, Richard,” she snorted.

He hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it. That didn’t sit right with him, and he tried to tangle out if it was the fact that she invited strangers into her home or if it was an honest gut instinct about not getting involved with her that was bothering him the most.

“Oh, jeez, do not do that,” she muttered. “I’m a cop. I have a weapon. I’m trained in a couple forms of self-defense. I can invite an Army Ranger to my apartment for sex - you’re not a ax-murderer of a stranger.”

But he was. Essentially. She had no idea what he really did. And yet she was stepping to the curb and raising her hand for a taxi.

“No,” he said quickly, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her back. She came but she shot him an affronted look. He realized she thought he was rejecting her, and that was just ludicrous. “I mean yes. Yes to your place. But I don’t want to ride. I want to walk. I want to hold your hand and feel the anticipation mount with every block.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You do realize there’s a pretty delicious anticipation sitting in the dark, close backseat of a taxi?” She shook off his hold on her elbow and trailed her fingers to the button on his pants, tugging a little. “You realize there are certain things I can… do?”

“Exactly,” he rasped. He rubbed his hand down his face for a chance to regain his composure. “Exactly what I want to - avoid. You’re gonna break me before I get chance at cracking you.”

“You’ll never crack me,” she assured him. “So let’s just get a taxi, soldier.”

He watched, helpless, as she hailed a cab.

He really didn’t like leaving a trail. But Beckett was getting in now and sliding across the seat and his cock was eager to learn all about what things she could do.

So he got inside.

\-----

She cradled his hand in her lap and he could feel the heat coming from her, the fabric of her jeans, the caress of her fingers, doing nothing to curtail the frantic thump of his heartbeat. Her thumbs pressed into his palm and drew circles around his wrist.

“That’s a little cute, Rick,” she murmured quietly. The cab was as she had promised, close and dark and sexy as hell. “Your palms are clammy. You nervous?”

Richard glanced quickly out the window and then back to her, couldn’t find words to explain.

“If you want, Ricky, we can have coffee first. Ease you into it.”

He strangled a laugh in his throat and shook his head, wondered if that was the way to go. Let her go on thinking he was nervous about having sex with her. He still didn’t have an explanation that would work better, but excuses and half-truths already felt thin and cheap with her.

So he told her the truth. “The cab company keeps track of everything. Cameras installed in the plastic here.” He tapped just below the black eye that watched them, set into the strip of clear plastic above the slot to pass money through. “There’s something called global positioning which uses satellites to monitor and keep track of fleet vehicles. It came into public use only a couple years ago, but the military has been using it since the late seventies.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re - you mean - you’re serious. Not just the windows in the restaurant, but this? Being tracked by a cab company.”

“He knows the address of where he’s dropping us off. If you pay with a credit card - but you’re not, because I’ve got cash, so at least there’s that small measure of anonymity - but otherwise that’s one more link in the chain.”

“Are you - by any chance - planning to murder me, Rick? Because that is the only reason to care about who’s seen you and where.”

“No,” he grimaced. “I’m just trained to be - careful.” He furrowed his eyebrows and wished he hadn’t said anything, wished the truth hadn’t wanted out. Because instead of sultry and sexy, now he was getting snarky and skeptical, and really, what the fuck did it matter?

He was in New York City on furlough, not on a mission.

“Forget it. It’s hard to turn off. Just…” Shit, his heart sank. He had absolutely no game around Kate Beckett. He was all fumbling idiocy in front of the one person he absolutely wanted to impress.

He wanted her to like him.

But she was leaning towards the cab driver and rapping on the plastic. “Hey. Hey, man. Let us out right here. This works. Thanks.”

He stared at her even as the taxi pulled out of the flow of traffic and up to the sidewalk. She slid her hand down the back of his pants, squeezed his ass even as she fished out his wallet.

Oh, shit.

But she didn’t even look at his false driver’s license; she only took the cash out and pushed it through the plastic divider to the front seat. “Keep the change,” she said, winking at him as she said it. “Get out, Rick. Come on. We’ll hold hands and walk.”

He popped open the door and climbed out, reached back to take her hand. She rose to the sidewalk, came in close, closer, slid her hand down his pants again, replaced his wallet. She pressed a soft kiss to his jaw and skimmed her fingers at his waist.

“You’re a difficult one to land, soldier.” She shifted back to look him in the eyes, and she gave him a slow smile. “But I can tell you’re going to be worth it.”

\-----

She held his hand. He even went so far as to lace their fingers together and she gave him a look for it, but she didn’t shake him off.

Her fingers were cool and slim between his own; he could feel the slow beat of her pulse. Her hip kept bumping his, or her shoulder knocking his own, and after a while he realized it was purposeful, that she was rubbing against him, guiding him, being close.

It was better than the taxi.

The moon was out tonight, and the clouds were thin and bumpy across its face, creating strange strobes of light in the darkness. It felt surreal, like magic, and his unease began to melt. The windows, the cab, his stupid attempts at honesty.

He silently promised himself, and her as well, that when he finally got her naked, he was going to make sure he was worth all this trouble. He was going to have her begging for it; he was going to blow her mind.

She was making another wide sweep around a sidewalk ATM when he realized she was also avoiding known surveillance cameras.

He laughed and glanced over at her, their arms stretched over a fire hydrant on the far side of the sidewalk. “Kate Beckett.”

“Yes?” An arch look. Twenty-fucking-two. No way.

“You’re helping me execute the perfect murder?”

She hummed and gave him a sly look; he couldn’t believe her. How she just went with it, adapted. She was amazing.

“I’m touched,” he said, grinning. But he was, actually. She was doing this for him. He could get it back; he could get his game back and step it up. She came back to him on the sidewalk, close again, and he left a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Thanks for indulging me.”

“Taking one for the team, Rick.”

He squeezed her hand and she nudged him to make a right at the corner; they chased another block up the street.

“There’s a drug store up ahead. They have security cameras stationed at both entrances, so we’ll have to cross over before we get there.”

She was getting off on this, wasn’t she? She’d made a game out of it for herself, and she was a little thrilled by escorting a strange man to her home, avoiding leaving any kind of trail behind, no trace of his existence. She was excited.

“Very good, Officer.” He wondered then what she hoped to get out of the NYPD, what came next for her. “You want to make detective, don’t you?”

She actually startled, missing only half a step before carrying smoothly on. She cleared her throat and shrugged one shoulder. “Yes.” Too nonchalant, so that meant she was damn serious about it.

“You’d be good. Noticing security cameras, thinking like a criminal. What section? Narcotics, Vice, Burglary-”

“Homicide,” she said quickly. There was a rasp in her voice that stirred his guts - and his cock - and he studied her profile in the yellow light of a street lamp.

“Homicide. I can see you doing that.” Actually, he could see her doing Vice. Sexy as she was, with that spirit of naughty fun. He didn’t understand why homicide, but the story was there, held behind a rigid set to her jaw and that wound in her eyes that he’d seen at the bar.

He avoided it, but he was coming back to it later. “You know how to read people,” he commented. “You picked me up pretty quick, saw through me in the subway.”

She made a non-committal noise but he wasn’t done.

“I did something like that in the Service,” he said cautiously. He was carefully leaving out the details - that his job was for the CIA Service, and Military Intelligence, not while in service as a regular grunt. He actually hadn’t ever been technically in service. He was a ghost, as the fake driver’s license attested. “You know, pick people out, see through them.”

“You interrogated prisoners,” she said, her head turning, her eyes dark on his. Jumping to conclusions. “Is it true then? About how… the human rights violations.”

He closed his mouth.

“You do know,” she said softly. “You know and you can’t say. But saying nothing tells me all I need to know.” She made a disgusted noise and shook her head. “Shit. This is not sexy, Richard. Personal life - the past - let’s just stop talking. The only words you say to me, the only thing I’ll tell you will be more and harder.”

“Harder?” he echoed. His mouth was dry. Interrogation techniques - he’d done it, sure, but not the things she was thinking of. “All right. No more talking.”

“Well, except for this - we’re here. This is my building.”

She tugged sharply on his hand and he followed her inside.

\-----

As she had asked, Richard didn’t say a word.

She made one more comment about the elevator, a roll of her eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. He could do more with his body than he could with any lame attempt at making conversation, and he could do it faster.

And he wanted her. He wanted her to keep wanting him too.

So when she pulled out her key and stepped up to her door, he made his move, pressing in against her back. She stiffened, that half a heartbeat’s worth of alert that tugged at something in him - concern or understanding or curiosity - but he ignored it and dropped his hands to her hips.

She was slow unlocking her door.

Richard shifted until her ass was tucked into his groin, and he spread his palm over her stomach, wide, spanning rib to rib. Her breath hitched and the key slipped the locked; she went back for it again.

He tilted his head down and scraped his cheek across hers on his way to her neck. Her hair tickled, and he smelled her conditioner and the long day before he finally tasted the soft skin at her nape.

She made a little noise and the tumblers scraped, but her hand stilled, her whole body stilled, as if waiting for him.

Rick skimmed his other hand up her side to her shoulder, slid his hand around to lay at her collarbones, stroking the sides of that deep v-neck shirt. He brought her ass flush with his hips, felt her body shiver in response, her breath catch.

He opened his mouth on her neck and touched his tongue to her skin, tasted day-long perfume or lotion and the salt of a hard shift.

She lifted her hand and raked her fingers through his hair, gripped the back of his head to keep him there.

He found the spot on the next swipe of his tongue, just below her jaw in front of her ear; her whole body shuddered and her head rolled back, hips moving against his. He did it again, sucking at her skin lightly, and she moaned.

In her hallway. Door unlocked but not open. She actually moaned.

He grinned and laved his tongue over the spot, blew his breath across her skin to see her response. She gripped his hair and turned her head into his mouth, her kiss rough, plunging her tongue against his and arching into his arms.

He took the initiative of opening her door, pulling the key from the lock even while she sucked on his tongue. Her hand found the back of his shirt and tugged, trying to pull it over his head, and he got them stumbling through the door.

She groaned something unintelligible and he reached down for her ass, hoisted her up against his body. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her kiss growing artless and deep, and he swung her around, cupped the back of her head, and slammed her body into the door.

It rang as it hit home in the frame; she arched hard into his groin, lined up just right for friction. Her hair was thick and soft under his palm, and he angled her head to meet his mouth for a slanting kiss, taking her little noises with his tongue.

She rocked and rocked against him; he mimicked her rhythm with his hips, pressing her against the door. His free hand squeezed her thigh, moved inward to the tight space between them, began searching for buttons.

She groaned and her arm hooked tighter around his neck, her other hand coming down to guide his. She pressed his fingers into a fist and wrapped her hand around it, and then she knuckled his fist into the seam of her jeans.

He caught on quick.

Beckett gasped and stiffened against him, so he rolled the sharp, thick points of his knuckles between her legs. She started to tremble, her head thrown back against the door, and he set up a rhythm, using his hips for extra thrust as he worked her, a brutal thing.

She was biting her lip to keep it in, keep it back, her breath coming fast and her body squeezing around his. Thighs, legs, the hard arch of her spine, the taut muscles of her belly. He used the door for leverage and knuckled her sex under her jeans, drew his other hand around to her torso.

He cupped her breast, rolled her nipple between his fingers, and she orgasmed like she was bursting apart, hard and rough and dirty, rattling the door in its frame.


	2. Chapter 2

Beckett panted as she dropped her legs to the floor, the gorgeous spots of color on her neck only blooming pinker, deeper. Richard trapped her against there (he couldn’t quite bear to let her move away), rocked his hips into the still-hot cradle of her thighs, and she gasped, clutching him.

Her arms were bands around his back, her knee stuttered and came up the outside of his thigh. She gripped his nape and attacked his jaw with her mouth, her breathing erratic and gulping, her teeth scraping his five o’clock shadow.

She rubbed her lips against his jaw, back and forth, and he had fucking hot images of scraping her inside thighs with that same sensation she seemed to crave. He purposefully dragged his cheek against hers and nipped at her earlobe, suckled at that spot he’d found in the hallway.

Beckett shuddered and dropped an inch, her body back against the door and her knees apparently losing strength. He ducked his mouth to the column of her throat, got his teeth around her pretty, pale skin to mark her. She growled and bucked her hips against him, a hurry up in the movement that made him grin.

They weren’t talking, but she also wasn’t saying harder; he’d taken that one to heart and was intent on giving her more than she could handle.

“You need to be naked,” she grunted. “I need to be naked. Fuck me already.”

And just because she’d said that - he wanted to punish her.

He wanted to make this slow.

He slid his hands to her hips and worked past her jeans, found her ripe ass filling his palms. He kneaded and rocked her into his erection, rubbed them both together, directing her movement with a sharp angle. She moaned and her forehead fell to his, her thigh hiking higher at his hip, her heel digging into the back of his leg as she tried to get closer.

He wanted one more orgasm with her clothes on, just because she seemed so disdainful of taking his sweet time. He wanted to show her.

She grunted and nipped his cheekbone, teeth flashing, her forehead rolling against his, but she couldn’t regain control. Her heel dug sharply but he only shifted his thigh to slide between hers, lifting high enough to hit her sex. She gasped, that breathless sound that seemed so feminine, so intimate, and he gripped her ass harder and forced her to ride his thigh.

Beckett’s fingers dug into his back as her breasts were crushed into his chest. Her mouth was open now and drawing in air that came out in little whimpering moans.

And he knew she was begging. This was Kate Beckett pleading for release.

Richard leaned in against her, trapping her torso against the door and giving him just enough to grind his thigh into her jean-clad clit. She cried out and stiffened in his arms, bucking wildly through her second orgasm, so fierce that he could hear her skull knocking against the door as she writhed.

And this time when she was wrung out, he shifted an arm behind her back, the other under her ass, and he carried her off the door to her couch, his mouth soft and gentle over her collarbones, his nose rooting for her breasts.

She petted his hair and hummed, draped over him.

They were both still fully clothed.

\-----

Richard wanted to go slower with her on the couch, take his time, map the contours of her body with his mouth, stroke her skin with his fingers.

But she reached for his t-shirt and ripped it off over his head, brought her teeth to his pec muscle and lightly bit. He grunted and his hips rose up, her thighs parted over his.

She ground down on him, urging him on. “Come on,” she murmured against his skin. “You know you want it.”

He wrapped his hand around her neck and tangled his fingers in her hair, kept her there. She must not have been expecting that, because she moaned and licked at his chest, dragged her tongue over his nipple and sank her teeth into him in an open-mouthed bite that had his cock pounding painfully hard.

She wanted him to fuck her already, and then what? She thought he’d be done? Oh fuck, no, Kate Beckett. They had just begun.

“You have no idea,” he growled.

He gripped the back of her neck and pulled her up to his mouth, sucked a kiss from her that she gave avidly, aggressively, her hands already at his pants and getting inside.

“Then show me,” she panted. “Show me.”

He dislodged her hands and went for her t-shirt instead, yanking it over her head in the same move she’d done to him. Even though he was struck a little dumb by the cleavage on display inside that black and tan bra, he still pushed his hands inside and hefted each one, perfect wonderful creations. She growled and he thumbed her nipples hard.

Kate snapped at him, teeth and a whip of her head, like something feral.

Oh, he was into her. She was damn amazing.

Richard yanked down the bra, not bothering to unwrap her. Kept his hands on her breasts, kneading roughly.

She moaned and rode his hips, her body rocking now, a rhythm she was imparting to him with every wild and wanton movement. He got the hint and skated the back of his fingers down her stomach, flicked open the button on her jeans.

Her head came up, eyes glittering dangerously. “I do mine, you do yours,” she growled, taking over at her zipper and wriggling in his lap as she twisted to yank her jeans down her legs. He gave himself a few seconds to watch, the perfect contortion of her body, the ways she could move, and he filed it away for later.

Because there fucking hell was going to be a later.

She wanted to drive them over a cliff until they crashed and burned? Fine. He would shove his cock inside her and drive her over the edge, but the moment she recovered, he would do what he wanted with her. Slow. Damn slow. Every curve and ridge of her body would be under his fingers.

He would go down on her until her thighs closed around his ears; he’d press her legs open and fuck her slow, her knees up by her shoulders; he’d take her in the shower from behind, holding onto her until she drowned.

But for now, she wanted hot and hard and fast, and he could sneak in a few moves she wouldn’t see coming. Prove to her he was worth keeping for another round or two.

He lifted his hips to shed his jeans and she had to grip his arms to keep from falling off his lap. For some reason, that motion got to her. She choked on a laugh and her eyes met his, a brief moment of connection, and it was all there - electric and dizzying, everything they could be.

He had a week with this woman - he had a week to prove himself.

He used his feet to shuck his pants and untangle his boxer briefs from his ankles; her bare ass was grinding against his thigh as she kicked off her own clothes. She arched her back to get at the clasp of her bra, let the straps fall down her shoulders.

He was going to make her put it all back on again and then peel it off of her, slowly, make her tremble with wanting him. He was going to spend time with his mouth against her belly and work his way up to her breasts, lave his tongue around and around, drive her crazy with wanting him.

Until then.

Beckett rose up on her knees, breasts swaying gently in his face. Just when he reached for them, she spread her legs and straddled his thighs, the heat of her blooming between them.

He touched his tongue to the underside of a breast, sucked her heaviness into his mouth. She moaned and rocked into his face, fingernails scoring the back of his neck and down over his shoulders.

He felt heat, the nudge of her knuckles, and he drew back to find her fingering her sex, those quick and dirty movements and the short jerk of her hips. The sound of her.

Richard wrapped his hand around her wrist and yanked her out of there. “That’s for me,” he growled, diving back with his own fingers. “Oh fuck.” Such fucking heaven.

She went rigid around him, and then her body sank down onto his fingers with a groan so visceral it echoed in his bones. He worked his fingers through her folds and inside her, not even bothering to savor the moment - she’d never let him anyway. He drew his free arm around her waist and guided her rocking hips, both of them working for her release.

She had a rhythm going. She rose and sank on her knees, her head falling back and her hair brushing his forearm. She was a little more reckless now, a little more out of control, and instead of letting her come, he merely pushed her right to the very edge.

And then he withdrew.

“No,” she gasped, head jerking up.

Richard spread her knees wider and wrapped a hand around his cock, gripped her hip and brought her straight down on him.

Of course, she had to want to go.

And she did. She went. Oh fuck, she worked herself down on him just like that.

He growled at the fierce clutch of her body around him, the way the rhythm of her little gasps were echoed in her muscles milking his cock. He gripped her shoulder and drew her inexorably down, shifting his hips every now and then to get a better angle. She had his biceps in a death grip, her body tense around his, so close to her orgasm that she looked like she would break.

When he was fully sheathed by her thick, wet heat, he took his moment.

He took it. He would have her slow down for one damn second so he could feel every bit of this.

She was trembling.

Her breaths came in tight gasps. He wrapped his arms around her and brought their chests together, sweat-slicked and warm. She mimicked his behavior, an arm hooking around his neck and the other at his shoulders and she dropped her forehead against his neck like she was doing her best to hold on.

He throbbed inside her.

Richard brushed the hair back from her throat and caressed the muscle there that strained, his thumb rubbing over and over it. She shuddered and he felt the movement around his cock, the sudden clutch and release of her body.

He kissed her jaw, wet and slow, trailed his tongue down her neck to sip at her collarbone.

He kept her close, wouldn’t let her draw away, dusted his kiss back up her throat to feel her swallowing. Her nipples rasped against his chest as she tried to move, and she ran her fingers through his hair, came in and met his mouth with her own.

The kiss was intimate and deep, the closest they’d been since this began. It dragged his breath from him and made his cock pulse in time to the strokes of her tongue. It was everything he’d been looking for.

He set up a rhythm then, short, shallow thrusts of himself inside her, dragging her body against his.

Her sex was hot inside, and tight, wet and swollen and wonderful, and he found himself pushing deeper, higher, finding hollow places to fill. She cried out and surged in his arms, rising.

But this time her orgasm was all rolling movement, like an ocean tide sucking him out, endless and strong and consuming.

He released everything inside her, gave it all, and she took it wordlessly, clinging to him.

\-----

When Beckett was boneless against his chest, still recovering, Richard carefully laid them both down on the couch. He’d never felt so much in sex before. Usually it was a tool he wielded to achieve a desired result, even when it was just letting off steam.

She shouldn’t be so different. She was a woman he’d picked up at a bar, for all intense and purposes. A woman he’d followed through the city and onto a subway who had called him on his bullshit and his stalking too.

She was different alright.

He was half-hard and rallying fast, and he wanted to do that again before she came back to senses and tried to dismiss him. He could tell she was a one-night-stand kind of woman, too cool and in control to allow for the messy pieces of a relationship in her life.

But not right this second.

He smugly figured he’d blown her mind.

Even vertical, Beckett was melted heat over his chest, her breath puffing along his shoulder, her thighs still spread over his hips. His cock pulsed and twitched and she let out a little groan.

Richard kept his arms wrapped around her, looser but still ready to keep her there if she moved, and then he felt it too.

His seed leaking out of her, coating their thighs.

Oh, shit. He forgot.

Oh, shit.

“Beckett?” he croaked. He gripped the back of her neck and twisted her hair around his fist. “Beckett, I - forgot. I got carried away.”

“What?” she dragged out, turning her nose into his chest like she meant to lift her head and couldn’t.

“Condom,” he said grimly.

“On the pill,” she sighed. “Clean. You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, heart fluttering stupidly in his chest at how easy that was. Not even a ripple. “Yeah, baby. You’re the first in a good long while.”

Was that why?

She got to him, and she shouldn’t be able to do that.

“And I’m - sterile,” he finished lamely. He never needed to tell anyone that; it was part of the training for the work he did, but he’d never needed to tell a woman that. “I mean… even if it’s…”

Beckett shifted at that, her head coming up, hair falling around her face. She frowned at him and opened her mouth to say something - probably cutting - but he slid a hand down her ass and stroked between her cheeks.

She grunted, head falling forward, her hair painting his chest.

He grinned and nudged his hips into her, his cock shifting higher, already hard again. She stuttered a breath and clutched his waist with her knees. “You - you came,” she muttered, as if to herself.

“Yeah, but I want you again,” he growled. “Lift up, love. I wanna see your face while I play with your breasts.”

She moaned but got her hands under her, pushed off against his chest, her eyes dark as stone in the intensity of her face.

He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts, watched the way she groaned and sank into him, hips rocking slowly against his.

“Yeah, baby, just like that,” he rumbled, cupping her, kneading the flesh in his hands. “Rock forward and then sink back.”

She narrowed her eyes at his direction and reached up to cover his hands on her breasts. For a second, the thought he’d pushed too far, demanded too much, but then she shifted his hands a little bit lower and made his fingers pinch her nipples.

“Harder,” she growled, a clear challenge in her eyes.

He twisted those peaks and she jerked, a cry startled out of her.

He squeezed her breasts ruthlessly, twisting, torquing. She shuddered around him, the sensation so appealing that he lifted to put his mouth on her. Kate groaned and bowed forward, deeper into his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple, tonguing her flesh as he palmed the other, unable to help himself.

He kept losing his control around her.

Richard felt her rocking over him, her sex swollen, wet, and her ass slick with their sweat against his thighs. He heard them, the sound of them together, the sounds of them together, moving like this, the intensity, the need.

And he lost it.

He drove up into her, a foot planted on the couch and the other on the floor for leverage. He rooted dark and hard inside her sex, biting her breasts and tasting blood as it pebbled under his tongue, their bodies furious and fast and intense.

She shouted his name and orgasmed, rattling in the cage of his arms, head thrown back. He finally came again, finally, finally, bursting heavy and thick and done, so done.

She had ripped him apart.

—–

She was kissing him. He was senseless and dazed but she was licking the edge of his mouth and stroking inside, sucking on his tongue and bottom lip, humming and working. As if kissing were an art in and of itself. As if she had mastery in it.

Richard lifted a heavy hand and it fell to her shoulder, his breathless groan falling out of him.

“You’re fucking amazing,” she whispered into his mouth.

His cock twitched - their round had barely made a dent in his reserves. Impossibly. He’d always known he had some deep reserves in him, that the program of his father’s had enhanced a lot of his abilities, but this had never been on his radar.

He just plain fucking wanted her.

Again.

She closed her hand around him.

He groaned, darkness blooming across his vision.

She hadn’t touched his cock until now. Her fingers were hot with sex and pounding heartbeats, but she worked him gingerly, like he was an unknown.

“You’re already so close,” she murmured. Her mouth was open at his mouth. It was erotic, their mouths so close and her hand doing that. “And that last one - you kinda left me for a few seconds there.”

“You kinda blew my mind,” he rasped.

She hummed, a pleased laugh tripping from behind her teeth and settling between them. “Trick I invented.”

“Making all the men go crazy? I never lose it like that,” he admitted.

“All the men?” She tilted her head but her hand still worked at him, petting and caressing, soft, gentle. Teasing. “How many do you think there’ve been?”

“Enough for you to know damn well how to get what you want.”

“Less than you might think,” she breathed. She turned her head away and her fingers squeezed, like she wanted to take those words back.

“Either way, Kate Beckett, you are the most erotic, beautiful creature I’ve ever met,” he said gruffly. “And I want you to do that to me again.”

She huffed a little laugh, her head turning back to him, narrowed eyes. “You think you can really get it up for that?”

“Woman. Are you not paying attention?”

She lifted an eyebrow but he was already ready to push inside her, hard enough to get there, and able to take his time with it now. All because of her petting fingers.

“How about this instead?” she said, sliding off his lap and moving for the floor. He groaned at the sight of her before him, her hands on his knees and her eyes on his bobbing cock, and she grinned. “Yeah, you’re gonna like this too, soldier.”

She lowered her mouth to his shaft and touched him with her tongue.

And then her phone rang.

\-----

“Shit,” Beckett sighed and closed her eyes.

There was a brief space of silence in which he could do nothing but stare at the top of her head, and then the phone jangled again and his hips jerked in time. Beckett groaned and dropped her head to his inside thigh, her curse making him rouse.

She seemed to pet at him in consolation or reassurance, and she lifted her head. “Shit. I - it might be…”

He reached down and gripped her upper arms, put her away from him and what was beginning to get out of hand. She shot him a startled look, but he leaned past her and snagged her jeans off the floor, found her flip phone and handed it over.

“Might be about your dad,” he finished quietly.

She stared at him a moment and then snatched the phone, lifted to her feet and stalked away, completely naked.

And so gorgeous. Richard watched her pace away and then he hunched over, putting his elbows on his knees, bowing over his still towering erection. He took deep breaths, vaguely registering Beckett’s conversation as she took it back towards - was it a bedroom?

He hadn’t even made it to her bedroom. And now her father probably needed her help to get home and… and it was already over.

A handful of hours and she was going to send him on his way.

Richard rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, his heart sinking but his cock completely not getting the message.

In the heat of the moment, he’d had all these ideas for how it would go, what he might do to her, what she’d do to him. He’d actually had visions for spending the week with her. Like a fucking lovestruck idiot.

Shit.

Hadn’t even made it to her bedroom. She’d wanted him against the door and maybe a good-bye, and he’d managed to get her to the couch. Like that was some huge accomplishment.

“It’s my father.”

Richard lifted his head and saw her standing in the hallway (naked, she was so gloriously naked), her closed phone propped against her thigh. “I figured,” he said. He wondered if she’d let him take a quick shower, get rid of this thing between his legs before he had to go back out there.

He knew he would be tormented with some seriously hot images of her all night. He’d have to work out a few more in the shower at the safe house too, most likely.

Beckett stalked back towards him, her breasts still peaked and flushed with arousal, her lips smudged and dark. Frustration crawled behind her eyes.

She tossed the phone onto the couch cushion beside him. “He’s not in a hurry to leave,” she said. “He never is. But he’s good and drunk.”

“I understand,” he promised her, giving her a half shrug even as his chest tightened. “You have to go.”

“You don’t understand. He’s not in a hurry to leave. And I owe you at least two more.”

“At least…”

“Two more,” she husked, dropping to her knees in front of him.

“Whoa. Kate-”

“Four to two, Rick. Give me a chance to at least make it three.”

Four? “But your dad-”

“You want to come, or you wanna kill the mood?” She wrapped her hand around his cock and squeezed; he grunted and dug his toes into the carpet to keep from jerking his hips up into her touch.

“Kate. It’s not about being even,” he got out. He had to scrape his hand down his face to focus. “You need to go, I understand-”

“What I need is to finally have some fucking fun,” she said. “But the faster this goes, maybe, the better. So brace yourself.”

She touched her lips to the head of his cock and blew a breath over him. He grunted and crashed back against the couch, staring down at this fucking amazing woman who was opening her mouth for him.

So wet, so warm. She slid down over him, the softness of her cheeks around his cock so enthralling that he couldn’t help the shallow thrust of his hips. She moaned and swallowed, her tongue pushing up against his cock, and he had to grip the edge of the couch to keep from reaching for her.

Kate began to bob her head, cheeks hollowing, the perfect suction of her mouth making him crazy with it. She was humming now and he couldn’t help himself; he gripped her upper arm to keep from holding her down on him. Not okay, not okay, but she was fast making him lose his mind.

He felt the work of her mouth around him, and he felt it close, so close, burning in his gut and wrapping tight at the base of his spine.

“Kate,” he moaned. “Kate, I - it’s - you gotta-”

She only got more clever, massaging his cock with her tongue.

“Fuck,” he shouted, grabbing for her. “Kate.”

She sucked as she released his cock, cradling him in her hands and milking him until his come jetted out of him, long looping ropes. Hips jumping, stuttering, his orgasm out of his control, her body so frustratingly far from his.

He groaned and dropped his head back to the couch, vision tunneled to black, completely wiped.

He felt her fingers feathering over his softening cock, vaguely registered the swipe of a t-shirt over him, cleaning it up, and he lifted his head to look at her.

She’d used her own shirt, not his, and she fucking winked at him as she dropped it back to the floor. His fingers wriggled, still half-reaching for her, palm up on his knee. She leaned her cheek into his hand, kissed the inside of his wrist.

“Thanks for showing me a good time, soldier.” She rose to her feet and her hand came out to pet him like a dog, her nails scratching through his short hair. “Time to go.”

He closed his eyes a moment, breathing in the scent of his come and her perfume heavy in the air, and then he sat forward, stared down at his clothes.

Time to go.

\-----

When Richard had dressed, finding his other shoe under the armchair and much farther away than he’d expected, Beckett was already standing with her keys in the foyer, watching him with those reserved eyes.

He didn’t even have keys. He had a burner phone he’d bought from a Radio Shack when he’d gotten to New York and no one even had that number.

But here was a woman who’d sunk down to her knees before him because they weren’t so-called even, who’d taken him to her favorite deli because vegan wasn’t him, who’d pushed him out of a cab and then avoided all the ATM cameras and surveillance security systems on their walk home.

He stood before her and wondered what he could possibly say to explain what that had meant.

To feel part of something. Like he meant something.

A connection.

But she turned and went for her front door, opened it and gestured him through. He hesitated just a moment too long and she stiffened, her face shuttered against him, and all he could do was pass her and go on out into the hallway, wordless.

She locked the door behind him and he realized she’d intended for him to maybe go on ahead of her, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

So he pretended he had no idea that she’d intended to part ways right here. She gave him a brief, strange look and started down the hall to her stairs - and he followed.

He followed her like a fucking lost puppy and she didn’t seem to catch on until they were on the sidewalk in front of her building and he paused when she did.

She narrowed her eyes at him and pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Do you need a cab?”

He tilted his head. “I can walk,” he said, giving her a slight smile. Like he didn’t understand. “You didn’t completely wipe me out.”

“Oh-kay,” she said. “Well.”

He smiled again, reached out for her hand, completely and utterly ignoring the warning in her eyes. “We should get going. We’ve already put it off longer than we should.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You should. And yeah, we’ve put it off. But now’s as good a time as any. Have a nice life, Rick.” She wriggled her hand out of his and instead patted his cheek, brushing a quick, sexless kiss across his lips.

When she turned around, heading down the sidewalk, Richard reached out and snagged her wrist, found her hand. She checked her stride, a glance to him over her shoulder, and he came along beside her.

“Four to three, Beckett. You owe me one more. I’m sticking with you until I can collect.”

She huffed and tried to shake him off, but he gave her a crooked smile and nudged her hip with their joined hands. She was still standing there, a little shell-shocked at his audacity maybe, and he took his life in his hands and leaned in, kissed that parted mouth.

Her quick indrawn breath was either a prelude to a punch or-

Her tongue darted out, painted his lips. Richard stepped into her, cupped the back of her head with his free hand, kept the kiss teasing and shallow.

She broke away from his mouth, but she was breathing hard, not speaking. He stroked his fingers through her hair, combing it away from her face. “It can get heavy,” he murmured, “doing it alone.”

She stiffened, and he knew that had been exactly the wrong thing to say.

—–

Beckett pushed him away - or she tried to. He didn’t shift, of course; she couldn’t possibly knock him back if he didn’t want to let her. She growled and stalked off down the sidewalk, but he followed, kept following, pretending she wasn’t ignoring him.

When the light flashed at the crosswalk and yet she darted out into the street anyway, his heart rate shot up and he hurried out after her. It wasn’t even a close thing - the car - but the driver honked at him and Beckett turned at the other corner, rigid and furious with him.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed.

“Nothing,” he said, completely void of emotion.

“You have a death wish or something? Running out into the street?”

“You ran out into the street,” he pointed out.

“I caught the tail end of the walk light,” she growled. But they both knew she hadn’t; she’d been trying to shake him and it hadn’t worked and now she was pissed.

He didn’t say anything.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned in, her eyes narrowed against him. “You don’t get to do this - following me around. That’s not how this goes. We fuck and then we go our separate ways.”

“I don’t want to separate,” he said, shrugging.

“Are you fucking insane? Are you having some kind of mental break, soldier - the war get to you?”

It took everything in his power to keep from stepping back, to keep from flinching at the acid in her words, the dismissal. He didn’t even know why he was still standing there, why he didn’t leave her on the sidewalk like she so clearly wished.

Maybe he really had lost it. Maybe he couldn’t deal any longer; maybe he didn’t want to deal.

And yet, he still couldn’t manage to walk away from her.

Connection.

He swallowed the worst of the broken glass lodged in his throat and hooked her fingers with his. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “This is kinda the first time I’ve been off the leash, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I just don’t want to stop doing it.” He lifted his head and met her eyes, winced and looked away.

Yeah. Okay.

Enough, Richard. Enough.

Time to go, right?

Time to go.

Get a fucking handle on this - whatever it was, a mental break or nervous breakdown - and skip the week furlough. Just go straight to Ireland, get it done. He was always better on a mission, diving into it, subsuming himself into his cover ID.

He realized his fingers were still curled around hers, that he hadn’t let go. And just when he started to release her, she twisted her hand in his and laced their fingers together.

Beckett sucked in a long breath, shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she muttered.

But then she dragged him down the sidewalk with her.

—–

It wasn’t the same bar he’d seen her in - and followed her from - but it was in the same neighborhood. She’d long ago let go of his hand, but she’d stopped trying to ditch him, hadn’t even given him any nasty looks the last few blocks either.

She strode into the bar like she fucking owned the place and he came in behind her with his man-in-black impression to back her up. A guy sitting alone in a booth held a smirk for her, some disrespect waiting to fall out of his mouth, but Richard stepped into his line of sight and in no uncertain terms let the man know: she was off-limits.

“Sid,” she called out. “Where is he?”

The bartender jerked his head down to the end of the bar, giving Richard a once-over and turning to point out her goal. Kate was already heading for the very last stool where it looked like an older man was hunched over a collection of tumblers, the smell of scotch strong and bitter in the air.

Richard followed her, eased onto a barstool a few down from the man, tried to give Beckett some privacy with her father.

“Dad,” she was murmuring. “Okay. I know.”

He was saying something to her; he was clinging to her shoulder as if he might slump to his knees. He wasn’t an unruly drunk, didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight, but there was a deep and troubled sadness to the tone of his voice, stitched into the very seam of his suit that made Richard sit up and pay attention.

A grief-filled plea and then the man jerked out of Kate’s hands and back to the bar.

“Dad,” she said. He saw the resolution and the certainty on her face, but behind it was a matching grief. Maybe at seeing her father so far down, maybe it was because of all the many times she’d come before to find him like this, but it made Richard stand up and head for her side.

She was tugging on her father’s shoulder with one hand, gripping him by the elbow with the other. She was saying something softly, a reminder or a threat, Richard didn’t know, but she blocked her father from his sight, shielding him.

She was shielding him, and that got to Richard more than anything else had so far today. She’d gone down on him, she’d swirled red wine in her glass and teased him for being a vegan, she’d ripped his shirt off over his head and attacked his mouth, but this, this movement to block him out so he couldn’t see how bad it had gotten, this had done it.

Sold.

“Jim,” he said quietly, angling past her. “Jim, it’s time to go.”

Kate lifted a startled look to him but he ignored her, reaching in to grasp the older man by the shoulders. He used an Agency trick to get the man on his feet, taking the glass of scotch and drawing it away from the bar, causing Jim to automatically stand up and come after it.

Jim took it in both hands but stayed standing, and Richard reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He dropped money on the bar to cover the tab, gave Sid a meaningful look.

“The glass goes with us,” he said firmly.

“But that’s-”

“With us,” he repeated, already turning Jim by his elbow. He propped the man with a shoulder under his armpit when it looked like his knees were jelly, and Richard saw Kate coming up at her father’s other side, doing the same.

He and Colleen had done this a hundred times together, carrying her no-good brother home through the streets of Colleen’s little Irish town. And then Colleen had tried to slit his throat with a knife, swimming in the moonlight in a loch, teasing him with her body and coming up behind him in the water, moving in for the kill.

But Beckett wasn’t Colleen and this wasn’t even a mission, just a woman with a lot of shit going on in her life who hadn’t even wanted him to come along.

He and Jim stood together on the sidewalk, Jim still nursing his last glass of scotch, while Beckett stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi, her mouth in a grim line.

“Your place?” he asked her. “Or does your father live around here?”

The cab stopped at her upraised hand - like a gift - and she opened the back door, turned to him. “He lives around here.”

Richard nodded. “Then let’s get him home, let him sleep it off.”

He was the one to put her father into the cab, careful of his head and his loose limbs, and he was the one to sit in between them, the buffer that soaked up all Jim’s alcoholic fumes and caught all of Beckett’s seething anger.

No one said a word.

At least she hadn’t tried to brush him off with another good-bye.

\-----

“Who are you?”

The words came out quickly, and a kind of shock carried through Jim’s voice that made the question appear more frail than it really was.

“I’m with her,” Richard answered. Beckett shot him a narrow look as she unlocked her father’s apartment door.

“But no one is ever with her,” the man said. He sounded bewildered.

“Well, now I am,” he answered. This time she let out a growling breath and breezed past them into the apartment.

Jim was heavy but he had dignity even drunk; when he shuffled forward to go through the door, he took help like it was owed to him.

Richard turned to Beckett for guidance.

“Bedroom,” she said firmly, indicating the long, dark hallway shrouded with framed family photographs.

A woman, a man, a girl - Kate. And yet, nowhere in the spacious apartment did Richard see the woman, or any hint of her presence. No lipstick, no kleenex boxes, no sweater thrown over the back of the chair, no half-burned candles, no notes tacked to the fridge. The apartment was definitely a blend of styles, but the influence of a wife had worn thin around the edges.

She was gone.

Divorced or dead, hard to know at this point. Jim wore a wedding ring, and the photographs were still up, but Richard had observed that often love struck some people harder than others.

He angled Jim through the doorway of the bedroom and eased him towards the chair. Better than lying him down; drunk like this, he didn’t need to be horizontal.

Richard knelt down before the man and worked at the laces of his shoes.

“Don’t let him go to bed, it’s better if he falls asleep upright in the-”

Kate cut off mid-sentence when she came down the hall and into the bedroom. Her face flushed a beautiful pink, and she averted her eyes as if she’d seen something too intimate.

Richard removed her father’s shoes and slid them under the used side of the bed, noticing the framed photo propped up on the bedside table. The wife, from years ago, with the girl as an infant, adult head bent forward over the sleeping baby in her arms.

Hell of a picture to wake up to every morning. No wonder Jim drank.

He came back to the man in the chair with the folded blanket from the foot of the bed, spread it across Jim’s lap. Her father had his eyes closed but he reached out and fumbled at Richard’s arm.

“You’re a good one,” the man muttered, patting Richard’s shoulder awkwardly. “Kate never brings home - ah, well. Thank you, son.”

Richard went still.

Kate pushed forward. “Rick. Just - leave him to me. Please.” Her words were quiet at his back, hovering, and he realized he’d blocked her out, taking up all the space before her father. Realized he was probably hearing more than she wanted him to know.

But no one had ever called him son. And meant it that way. Not even his own father.

He stood up quickly and shuffled away, moved to the door to stand guard over the tableau.

No one ever called him - but it hadn’t meant anything. Just a man not sure how to say thank you for another man’s help, and maybe there was something about his daughter having brought him. There had been no tenderness behind it, that hadn’t been connection.

Was Richard so starved for human affection?

Kate talked quietly to her father, arranging everything as she spoke. A cell phone was found in the bedside drawer and she plugged it into the wall, left it charging in her father’s lap. She opened up the top two buttons of his dress shirt, ducked her head to meet his eyes. Her father roused and cupped the side of her face, said something Richard didn’t hear but which caused Kate to hug the man.

He thought maybe he should leave.

He didn’t have experience with families, but this was looking painful. Richard turned and started back down the narrow hallway, confronted suddenly by all the family photos. The baby pictures and school photos from each grade, the family portraits with the oddly tilted heads and the poor wardrobe choices.

In one, Jim wore a bow tie that looked rakishly handsome, contrasted with his wife’s bright orange floral neck scarf that seemed to be a holdover from the late seventies. The baby in their arms meant it was 1980, and Kate was a skinny thing with no hair and a flowery, fluffy white dress.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, suddenly right behind him. “No. No looking at baby pictures. Move along.” She was shoving on him, but he was immovable, and she grunted curses at him as she tried. “You were supposed to be a fucking one-night stand, remember?”

“I don’t recall signing anything,” he murmured back, stepping neatly out of range. She didn’t stumble though, and he admired her quickness, the way she reasserted herself.

“Woman’s prerogative,” she said, nodding for him to go ahead of her.

“What about Jim?”

“He’s fine. He’ll sleep it off. Be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning with no one the wiser.”

“Must make it difficult to-” He stopped at the murderous gaze she shot him, and he did an about-face and marched back to the living room. He was learning to shut up, figuring it out. Some lines she wasn’t ready to cross yet.

“Let’s go,” she said quickly, pushing past him to open the front door. He stepped through, glad to have at least seen those family photos on the wall, gotten a chance to peek at the girl beneath all that bold, unbreaking woman.

“You lost a tooth in third grade,” he murmured in the elevator they took down.

“What?”

“The school photo. I like it - it’s cute. One front tooth missing so that your smile looked a little off-balanced. Crooked.”

She huffed.

“Purple shirt,” he noted. “Lavender with darker stripes.”

“Dress,” she corrected him. “T-shirt dress, with a belt.”

“Oh?” He could suddenly see her at eight years old, her hair pushed back by its headband, her knees too big for her thin legs and just sticking out from under that cotton dress. The collar popped up in the back not because she was cool but because she played hard and got messy and wrestled even in her picture day clothes.

“My mom picked it out for me,” she said quietly. “The belt buckle was these two silver hoops that you had to thread the belt through and somehow keep it together. I never could get it. So my mom cinched it up in the morning and I didn’t touch it all day. I didn’t even go to the bathroom because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get it back together.”

He realized he was frowning, concerned for a girl no longer frustrated by her belt. “But it was a dress. Couldn’t you have just…”

Kate turned to him as the elevator doors opened. “Yes. Lifted the skirt and I’d have never had to touch the belt. But I didn’t realize that. I just knew I would never get the belt back together if I undid it.” She walked off the elevator quickly, back to ignoring him.

But he thought her heard her last words as she moved away.

Story of my life.

\-----

Richard found her hand out on the sidewalk, wrapped his fingers around hers and then twined them together, purposefully. She paused in her stride to give him - what he now knew was patented - that look. That pissed-off, who do you think you are? look.

He liked it. He liked being the cause of that look and then doing it anyway, exactly what he wanted to do, what he knew she wanted from him too. Like right now, holding her hand. She was not a woman who held hands; she was a woman who did one-night stands and kept herself safe.

But she wasn’t all that practiced at it, he didn’t think. She kept giving away too much of herself, kept figuratively getting on her knees in front of him. She didn’t mean to, but she did it anyway. And when he held her hand, when he got down on his knees for her, it reassured that part of her that kept giving herself away.

Which was good, really, because apparently he was going to stay down here on his knees for her, walk through fucking broken glass to get to her, be willing to take whatever she damn well felt like giving.

When had this happened to him?

Not even Colleen had made him want this - and that had been choosing her over the mission, fucking up an assignment, to his detriment, to his shame. But this woman, this girl, made him want to do things.

Things, all kinds of things, stupid things, sexy things, homey things. Buy her childhood self a fucking belt that wouldn’t confound her. Call her father to check up on him so that she wouldn’t have to go to seedy bars in the middle of the night.

He wanted to hold her down on her bed and put his mouth to that paradise between her legs, unmake her whole world.

“I don’t know why I told you that stuff about being a kid,” she muttered. She was splaying her fingers out, stuck between his own as he held her hand. “Why are you still here?”

Because you’re beautiful.

“Three to four,” he said easily. “And I know we can double our scores before the evening is over.”

“I just picked my father up from a bar. Do you think I feel - at all - like fucking right now?”

“Yes,” he said. Confident that, if anything, Kate Beckett needed the release. “You’re churning up inside. And I’m good. I know how to get you off.”

She grunted and shot him a look, curiosity in her eyes. More than she probably meant to let him see, because there was a dark need behind it, an opening pit of need, and if he hadn’t known how good it was with her already, felt that sucking desperation around his cock, then he would have been running for the hills at a look like that.

Too serious, too needy, too much for a guy who wasn’t supposed to be leaving any traces behind.

“Awfully cocky, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “You’ve seen it. You tell me.”

She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and gave him a long look, but there was amusement there. “Hmm. Well.”

Richard squeezed her hand, saw the subway station coming up just ahead of them. “You know you want it,” he murmured, using her own words from their first encounter. “And hey, look at that. It’s where we met.”

“Where I confronted you.”

“And fell in love,” he joked, wriggling his eyebrows madly so she’d get he was being sarcastic.

He was being sarcastic, right.

She scoffed and tossed her head, but he read a frisson of terror in the movement.

He was getting too close. He needed to ease up. If there was one thing Richard knew how to do, it was get close to his asset.

“Let’s ride the subway back to your place,” he said, keeping his fingers loose in hers but pressing their shoulders together. “What do you say, Kate? I don’t think you’re through with me yet.”

She gave him a look out of the corner of her eyes. He lifted her hand to his lips and rubbed a kiss to her knuckles, being sure to scrape his scruff against her skin, remind her of what he was capable of.

Her breath caught. Predatory now, with him as her prey.

“Fuck it,” she growled. “Back to my place.”

—–

The subway ride was agony.

Standing at the back of the car as it swayed through the fluorescent-lit tunnels, so sharply bright and illuminating, Richard wanted to touch her. But it wasn’t nearly crowded enough and there was a guy with roving eyes just down the aisle who seemed to see everything.

Every time Kate’s fingers tangled with his, the guy saw it. Every time Richard turned his head to brush his lips against her ear, the guy happened to be watching.

It was annoying.

No one was supposed to be watching him.

He shifted to block Kate’s body from view and she lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment. His back was against the pole and she had one arm up to hold onto the handle over her head, but now the gorgeous length of her wasn’t on display to the asshole commuter who liked to people-watch.

“Enjoying yourself?” she murmured.

“I am now.” He had just enough cover to take her by the hip, tugging her step by step towards him. She came haltingly, leaning against his strength, but her lips were smirking.

He waited until she was close enough and then he looped his arms around her waist, slung low enough that his fingers could tease her ass. There was a brief moment where she simply stared at him and then she lowered her arm and placed her palms on his chest.

He smiled. Kate studied his face, her eyes roaming over his visage as if she’d had a sudden revelation.

“Why are you still here?” she said softly. Bewildered.

“Has no one ever stayed before?” he murmured, holding her tighter. “You kick them all out, Beckett?” A twist of his lips so it wasn’t all so serious for her. “None have been up to scruff? Well, good to know you have such high standards. I’ll consider myself lucky.”

“You should,” she said easily. “But before you think you are up to scruff, I could use another hard fucking.”

He gaped, shocked and so damn aroused by how casually she had said it, and how her lips turned up in victory at flustering him.

He steeled himself and hardened his gaze, drew his hand up to grip the side of her neck, thumb framing her jaw. Keeping her right where he wanted her. Those eyes, flinty and fiery, framed by such dark lashes and that ring of kohl.

“You could use something all right,” he rumbled. Damage, the damage he could do to them both, and she would like it.

His thumb swept up over her cheekbone and he couldn’t help seeing the dainty roundness of her ear peeking out from her hair.

That dainty round ear devastated him.

She could use some love.

She’d never allow it, but he was a damn good spy. Surely he could sneak it in?

Covert love.

“What are you grinning about?” she snarked.

He pulled her those last few inches into him and kissed her, hard, until she gave it back as well. He broke to drag his mouth back to that adorable ear, sucked lightly on her lobe. “Grinning about you, Kate Beckett. We’ll see how hard you can take it.”

\-----

Why was it so awkward for him now? She had opened the door and so Richard followed her inside her apartment, wondering what to do next.

She tossed her keys to the kitchen counter, pulled her phone out more carefully and set it down. He watched her movements, the fluid grace and the delicate balance of her features. She’d make an excellent operative; her beauty would dazzle them blind, and her intelligence would make her deadly.

He hoped he might get the chance to tell her that.

Wait. What?

No.

No, not actually tell her. Not tell her about the business; no, that was ridiculously out of the question. He had just meant - he meant - he’d like to show her how much she dazzled him.

(It was ridiculous to think after a mere day that he wanted to confess his secrets. Ridiculous? It was damn dangerous. What the hell was his problem?)

And. It was only awkward because he was putting too much on this, giving it too much weight. Only a one night stand, right? Only casual sex with a challenging, fun woman who had issues of her own, and if he could help a little with those issues, then that was fine, but it wasn’t really the point of all this.

Damn. Too much wasted time, already, if tonight was all he got.

Fuck the awkwardness.

Richard came up behind her at the counter as she studied her phone, pressed his hands to her hips and pulled her back against him. She didn’t stiffen, she only reached down and laced her fingers with his, drew his hands up to cup her breasts.

“Fuck, yes,” he croaked.

She knew what she wanted, he’d give her that.

“Harder, asshole.”

Richard growled at her ear and nipped it, felt her hips move back into his for that. He was careful with her breasts, going slow, squeezing lightly and rubbing his thumbs along the sides and then across the cloth-covered nipples.

Despite that command for harder turned out she must really like it his way instead. Her breath caught and her hands left his, her fingers trailing back along his forearms, subtly erotic.

“You smell like scotch and sex,” he murmured at her ear. “I could definitely get drunk on you.”

She shifted just slightly - she apparently liked that too, no matter how cheesy the line had come out of his mouth - and her hands covered his again, squeezed in silent command. He ignored the nudge and instead slipped his knee between her thighs, cradling her, and felt her heart begin to thud.

She felt good under his hands, felt responsive and ripe, and he nuzzled her hair away, pressed his kiss to that soft skin at the back of her neck. She shivered and rocked her hips, and he touched his tongue to her nape for more of that.

Kate grunted and gripped his wrists, crushed herself back into him, and he reciprocated by pushing her into the counter.

“Fuck,” she gasped. Her hips rocked against the hard edge of the island, and he stroked his hands down to her waist, began tugging her shirt up. He moved slowly, revealing the skin of her back inch by inch, putting a kiss to every knob of her spine.

She dropped her hands to the counter, bowed over. Her hips were working this tight, hot little rhythm that would have inflamed him were he not determined to make love to her.

Some tenderness. Enough to break her apart. He had a feeling that fucking her hard was really more like safety to her rather than actually pushing her boundaries. Expanding Kate Beckett’s horizons might actually include anticipation and vulnerability rather than new angles or kinky positions.

“Fucking get on with it, already,” she growled.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pulled her shirt up over her head with a grunt; she lifted a hand from the counter and slung it off, right to the floor. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked back at him, eyes burning into his.

“Hurry up,” she was divesting herself of her bra without hesitation. “We’ve already wasted too much time.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t time wasted, love.” He leaned in and put his hips to hers, his groin fitting at her ass so snugly. Sad not to reveal those breasts himself, but this would do. “Learned all I need to know to make it good for you.”

“You didn’t exactly need any fucking help.”

“Fucking help?” he chuckled, reaching down to yank his own t-shirt off over his head. He wanted skin to skin with her. “Neither do you, love. You’ve got some hot moves.”

“You talk too much,” she growled.

He leaned forward to press his skin to hers and she let out a little sigh, pushing back off the counter to meet him. Richard lowered his mouth to her shoulder and wrapped his hands around her again, stroking up and down her belly before cupping her breasts once more.

Kate moaned and shifted, her ass rubbing his cock, and he realized he was going to have a hard time of it, keeping his control when all he wanted to do was bury himself deep inside her.

He opened his mouth and touched his tongue to her skin; she whimpered. He caressed her breasts so that he could feel her nipples against the palms of his hands, sighing himself at the eroticism of their swing.

Suddenly, Beckett cursed and twisted around. He was given a brief second’s eyeful before she hopped up on the counter to draw her legs around him. He growled in appreciation of those beautiful breasts right at the level of his mouth, but she wrapped herself around him and was attacking his mouth with her fierce kiss.

Her breasts pressed against his chest, her arms around his neck, her legs tightened at his hips. He moaned at the glide of her tongue, the way she drew him into her, bodies tensile and rubbing against each other. The strength of her around him.

Okay, okay. Fuck it. Maybe he could just fuck her hard and then do it slow when she’d been dazed by an orgasm.

Or three.

\-----

After half a second of staring at this crazy beautiful woman sitting on her counter, Richard remembered she hadn’t allowed him to do the honors. He lifted his head to narrow his eyes at her, and she growled something rough and demanding, clutching the hair at his nape to pull him back.

No. “You took it off, yourself, Beckett.”

“What the hell are you complaining-”

“Your bra.” He stared down at her breasts, lowered his head to touch a kiss to one brown nipple. “You took it off before I could do it.”

She groaned and her hands started in at his belt, rough and quick. “Don’t have a whole lot of time,” she moaned. “And you’re too damn slow.”

“I wanted to unwrap these,” he murmured, pressing his tongue to her nipple. She let out a sound that he hadn’t heard yet, her hands fisting in the pants she’d just opened up.

“Oh. God. Yeah,” she gasped. “I - yeah. Next time, soldier, promise.”

He grinned at next time and cupped her breasts, pushing her nipples close so he could get his mouth on both of them. She mewled and her hands went to his ears, her body rising up to meet his.

He sucked at her breasts until he tasted that faint bitterness of arousal, kissed his way up to her neck. She was digging into his pants now, and her hand found him through his boxers.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he grunted. Had to stop for a second, feel that.

She hummed some kind of encouragement, got her fingers around his shaft, her knuckles brushing his balls so that he squeezed her breasts too hard.

She moaned and her legs opened up around his hips, widening like an invitation.

“Am I going to fuck you right here standing up? Or should we take this to the bed?”

“Right here,” she growled. “I need it right here.”

He couldn’t remember her ever admitting to needing it before.

He sank his hands down to her hips and under her jeans, gripped her ass and pulled her in against his groin. She rocked there, her mouth opening under his kiss, her sounds getting more and more aggressive. She was pushing his boxers and pants down over his thighs and he let her undress him, choosing instead to work at her breasts and her hot mouth. Whatever skin he could get.

She kept faltering, her hands stuttering, and he memorized every moment it happened, what had caused her to go breathless, what had made her moan. She liked it when he pinched her nipples, liked it more when he bit her breast and sucked her into his mouth. She seemed to slow down and dwell more in the moment when his tongue was involved, but she sped up and got frantic when he used his teeth.

He was in the middle of mapping his strategy for next time when her hand finally wrapped around his cock. He groaned, caught by the pressure of her grip.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

“Yeah, baby, exactly,” she murmured. Suddenly her hands got soft, tender; she stroked, and he could only stand there, his hands ineffectual at her breasts, around to her back, along her hips, absently echoing her movement.

“Kate,” he breathed. His sensation narrowed down to the expectancy of each touch.

“Take my pants off, soldier.”

He sucked in a desperate breath and dropped his hands to her jeans, dumbly yanking at them. She laughed and released his cock, allowing him to think a second, and she wrapped her hands around his biceps and lifted her hips to help.

He was able to yank her jeans off her hips and down to her thighs, peeling the material off even as she sat there. When her bare legs were on the stainless steel of her countertop, she shivered and grinned at him, hooked her arms around his neck.

“You wanna fuck with your pants half on?” She lifted an eyebrow and pointedly glanced to his pants. “Bit constricting, isn’t it?”

He dropped his hands and gripped her thighs, tugged her into him again. His pants and boxers were stuck somewhere around his knees, but he couldn’t fucking care.

“I’m good with constricting,” he growled. “You ever try it?”

She laughed and her teeth showed, some startled pleasure that bloomed in her smile and made his cock lunge for her. She pressed her bare feet to his thighs and pushed his pants a little father down.

“Don’t want you too constricted.”

“You didn’t exactly answer my question,” he growled, dipping in close to take her mouth. Her kiss was giving, opened up and pleased, and he wondered if it was an act, if she knew what he wanted (this strange and unexpected tenderness) and gave him a facsimile of it to get what she wanted.

“I could constrict you,” she grinned, wrapping her hand around his cock again and squeezing. Hard.

He grunted and bit at her jaw, back to her ear, suckling at her lobe and then down to her neck, adoring her for that. For the way she stroked him now, both hands, her breath hot against him and her body just as enthusiastic for his pleasure as her own.

She wriggled closer and guided him towards her, hurrying him up, and he reached down to grab the crotch of her panties - they were soaking wet - and yank them aside.

“Yes, yes, oh, just like that,” she murmured. “Let’s get this party started.”

He laughed; she kept surprising him. But he pushed his thumb into her sex and swiped it along her folds, gathering the hot and wet arousal that seemed to fill the room. She was moaning now and her hips were coming up in little thrusts against his seeking fingers.

“Yeah, love, you like that?”

“Like - like that,” she grunted. And then she was on the move, arranging him where she needed it, lined them up, everything hot and desperate and immediate.

Suddenly it wasn’t good enough to give her something new, to show her a little more than she’d had before, but he needed it, he needed it. Her.

“Let me inside you, sweetheart,” he murmured. She groaned and her mouth sucked on his neck even as she pushed her hips into him.

And then he found her. All that fumbling, and the wetness, and the scrape of her panties, and then he was right there.

She gasped and held still, and he pushed into her sex, gripping her ass to pull her tighter. Her body rolled then, a sharp and sudden jerk of her hips that seated him all the way, his cock pulsing within her, deep and right.

“Fuck,” she stuttered.

“You feel - so good,” he whispered, touching his mouth to hers to share.

She moaned and opened for him, her thighs widening and her heels pulling him into her. He withdrew slowly and thrust back inside, grinning at her moan, the way she dug her fingers into his shoulders.

“You feel pretty damn good yourself,” she grunted. Her body started meeting his, thrust for thrust, her rhythm fierce but a little anxious, wanting too much.

He loved the way her hot skin felt pressed against his own, the sweat at her stomach, the tension in her legs around him.

But he wanted to see her.

He sucked at her mouth and dropped down to her neck, pressed her body back against the stainless steel counter. She gasped and lifted her hips, still meeting his thrusts, and he stroked his hands from her thighs up her abs to her breasts.

She moaned and clutched at him with her legs; he worked into her harder, thrusting and bucking, squeezing her breasts as he did so that she was crying out. Her head thrashed on the counter and her hair was in wild disarray along the steel; he drove into her with force, pounding as hard as the blood in his cock.

“Come here,” she husked. Her eyes were suddenly on his, beckoning. “Come down here with me.”

He leaned in over her, and she wrapped her arms around him, kept him close, so that his chest rubbed against her breasts, so that he was only rutting, just rutting into her, and he was in love with how teeth-grittingly desperate he was for her. How wild she was for him.

“Oh, yes.” Kate cried out as she came, gripping spasms around him that made it impossible to hold out.

He orgasmed with a roar, his hips sloppy and jerking as he did, his face pressed against her breasts.


	3. Chapter 3

He dragged his face against her belly and lifted his head to look at her: sexy, well-fucked, humming. Kate Beckett of the hard angles and harsh mouth and wow.

He stood, rubbed his hands up and down her thighs as she shivered. She held her hands out to him and he pulled her upright and into his chest. He wrapped her up in a hug, kissing her neck as he dipped his knees, gathering her against him.

He grunted as he stumbled, and she laughed, her nose nudging his. “You forgot? Your pants are around your ankles.”

He sighed and dropped her back onto the counter, making her laugh again. She gripped his hips and leaned in, kissing his chest with a soft lick of her tongue.

“Stay,” she murmured.

He froze.

“If you move, you’ll fall. I’ll get your pants.”

Richard didn’t know why that clarification of stay was somehow so disappointing. But he stayed still and she slid down, dragging her nails down his thighs as she got his pants. She touched the back of his knee and he lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out.

She rose again and her fingers were everywhere, trailing over him, circling around his cock, brushing his hips. Her mouth skimmed his nipple and he grunted, clutching at her, squeezing flesh and not even caring what he had a grip on, so long as it was her.

When she finally stood before him, that self-satisfied smirk on her face meant she knew exactly how wild his heart was beating, how slim his control. He stepped forward so she had to step back, but she didn’t - she didn’t step back - and it brought his chest hard against her breasts and his thickening cock against her thigh.

“Mmm,” she murmured, lips lifting in one corner. “Where you think you’re going?”

He couldn’t be the only one getting aroused again, couldn’t be the only here who wanted more of that - any of it.

He reached for her with both hands, found the back of her neck to grip her hard, and slid his other hand between her legs.

“You’re so wet,” he growled. She looked unfazed.

Nonchalant even. She merely widened her stance, one arm hooked at his neck.

He started stroking, sliding along her folds in an artless way, pressing hard wherever he could, three fingers soaked with her. Her eyes slammed shut and her head dipped, and now he could walk her backwards, now he could steer her where he wanted.

Now she wasn’t so unfazed.

He bypassed the couch and pushed her down the hallway, that delicious squeeze around his hand every time her thighs brushed together. She wasn’t quiet, but she wasn’t loud either, and he liked how her breath seemed to be unable to reach her lungs, loved the mewling sounds she made now as he petted her sex.

He drove her back to her bedroom and tried not to look, tried not to observe, because if he stopped, she’d lead him straight out to the couch again. Now that he was in - he couldn’t let her realize it.

He’d prowl through her room and memorize everything later.

“You smell like heavy blossoms,” he mouthed against her neck. “Like deep summer when everything’s so ripe it might burst.”

“Fuck,” she gasped.

He stroked his fingers around her, dipped just the tips inside her, shallow excursions. Her hips were making these tight jerks, almost like she didn’t know she was doing it, and her breasts were heavy between them.

Time to get her on the bed, do this right.

Richard stepped into her, between her legs, and it forced her wider but it also put her off balance. She staggered back but he had a grip on the back of her neck, his arm stabilizing her, and he lowered her down to the mattress, following to lie half on top of her.

Oh, she liked that. Her body bucked sharply upward into his, and he had more freedom to explore that hot, wet cavern of her sex. He nuzzled her breasts with his nose, inhaled sharply, stroking her sex even as he played with her breasts. His body trapped hers and she was vibrating with it, thrumming under his hands.

He pressed up again, wanting her mouth, wanting to have her opened to him, and she moaned as he bit her bottom lip, sucking the welt. She was moving in one long cresting wave, her hips seeking his hand and surging into his touch.

“Harder,” she groaned. “More. Need - need you, Rick.”

He kissed her, his tongue working her mouth like a cock, reminding her of how it had been, preparing her for what would happen, and then he penetrated her with all three of his fingers.

She cried out into his mouth, sharp and surprised cries that echoed in her bedroom, and he thrust hard but slowly, forcing her wider, taking himself deeper, hanging on to her writhing body.

She orgasmed in a burst of movement, the arching of her body and the gripping of her arm at his neck, the frantic kissing and the brutal clutching of her sex around his fingers.

\-----

He surreptitiously surveyed her room, petting between her breasts and circling her belly, gentling her as she came down from her orgasm.

The walls were pale blue; he didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. So pale, like the fragile shell of an egg. Built to withstand pressure but one hard fall could end it.

Her hand came up and caught his wrist, dragged him across her body so that he was lying on top of her. He kept himself propped up on his elbows, but he let his weight settle between her thighs. She was still vibrating with it, her eyes closed, and he kissed her open mouth.

Her bedframe was all iron and severe, like something dredged from an abandoned hospital or sold off at a medical surplus store. Not exactly cheap, and not just functional, a statement piece that was sturdy and had withstood the vagaries of time. It said something about her.

The bedspread was simple, blues and greys, but it was a pattern of flowers or paisley or - he didn’t have the word for it - that spoke of something forlorn, dainty, the weed growing up between the cracks in the asphalt.

He lowered his eyes to her and she was staring up at him, studying him as he’d been studying her bedroom.

“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?” she murmured. But she lifted an eyebrow and her hips too, a thrust of remembrance, and he nipped her bottom lip in answer.

She wrapped her arm around his neck and kept him there, working at the kiss like it was her own mission. He rolled them over, putting her on top, and she planted her hands on his chest and lifted.

Ground her lower body against his. “What’s this?” she said.

“Encore,” he grinned. And he wanted to watch her face and the halo of her hair against the blue walls, the carefully pressed flowers in their brass frames, the rather mechanical/industrial accent to what was a room more girly than he’d expected.

“Encore for you or for me?”

“I think we can manage both,” he laughed. “Now that we have room.”

“In my bed, you mean.”

“Exactly. Couldn’t have done that standing up.”

“I do have a couch, you know. You should remember it. That’s where I sucked you off.”

“Fuck, do I.”

She grinned now too, evidently delighted - she enjoyed the control, and he didn’t mind her having it.

“Hey, love, that’s why you’re on top,” he said softly, stroking his hands up her thighs and immediately finding her sex. She grunted and rocked over him, and he rubbed the nub of her clit, gearing her up.

Kate leaned in heavy on her hands, her hips working against his thumb, her hair falling forward. She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes, and he let her push hard for her own release, let her do the work, let her forget a little about who it was under her.

He wanted her wet and soft and wide for him when he went in this time. He was already beginning to throb with it, cock bobbing every time her ass brushed him, and he wanted to slide into her easily, wanted to make this one last.

He wanted to memorize every moment of this.

And he wanted her to come a hundred more times tonight, just to loosen her up enough to maybe fall asleep with him.

Damn stupid of him, but he wanted it anyway.

\-----

When she unraveled on another orgasm, shaking and grinding against his hand, Kate had barely finished when Richard thrust inside her.

She went still, her eyes round and hazed, and her head dropped back, her breasts gleaming. He reached up and used his wet fingers to twist her nipple; she cried out and sank down hard, taking him deeper.

“Oh, that’s good,” he groaned. He fought to keep from closing his eyes, fought to watch her above him. Her mouth opened and closed and then she lifted up to her knees and rode him down again. “Fuck me. Wow. Kate.”

She grinned then, her smile slow and inward, and her head tilted forward and her hair fell around her face like a curtain. “I am fucking you, Rick. In case you didn’t notice.”

“Fuck,” he stuttered out. His hips jerked upwards and she groaned, all that tease slipping right off her face. Neither of them seemed able to keep up the banter for long, these games of control they kept playing; it was like the feeling of it was too strong. Too real.

She gripped his forearms as he squeezed her breasts and her rhythm began in earnest, riding him hard. He thumbed her nipples and twisted just to feel her shudder and go still again, and then he flipped his hands in her grasp and laced their fingers.

She growled and leaned forward, putting his hands over his head, her breasts brushing his chest. He rocked into her, thrusting and moving to meet her hips, and she ground down on him in these tight, wicked moves.

She pressed his hands into her mattress and rose up onto her knees a little, riding him up and down even while she barely touched him. Her mouth came to his and he opened for the slow, steady invasion of her tongue, shocked beyond belief at how visceral it was, how deep and tight and intense.

It was so intense.

She moaned into his mouth and her hips came up and down and her ass slammed into his thighs and her hands squeezed his tighter. Her noises got desperate and high-pitched and keening, and he couldn’t take it any longer.

Richard flipped them over and rutted into her hard, slamming his cock deeper and gripping her hands to the rhythm of his thrusts. Her neck arched and her lashes fell to her cheeks and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

He curved inward and put his open mouth to that throat, felt her cry out as she came apart below him. Her quick, feathering contractions around his cock made him spill hotly inside her, pounding out a frantic tattoo until he was spent.

At the last second, he rolled them, dragging her against his chest as he laid on his back, his cock still stiff inside her but his body dredged. She was warm and loose and caressing the back of his hand with her thumb, their fingers still laced together.

And then he fell asleep.

\-----

He woke quickly.

She was asleep, but his body was alert. She was draped over him like she hadn’t gotten the chance to move and he was instantly aroused by the idea of having fucked her so hard she’d dropped right to sleep. His cock was still barely inside her, and as his awareness kicked in, systems checking in one by one, his erection began to fill her again, swelling and throbbing to be inside the hot, wet fist of her amazing body.

He could take her again, have her wake to one of those wet dream orgasms that just shook from the inside out.

Mmm, yeah, he wanted to do that. He wanted to feel her throbbing and wet and shuddering around him, hear that gasp as she literally came awake.

Richard stroked his fingers down her spine, through the damp place at the small of her back, reasoning out that it had maybe been twenty minutes if she was still dewed with sweat and sex.

Wow, twenty minutes was a long time out of it for him. Huh.

Her ass curved under his fingers and he palmed one cheek, rested his other hand at the nape of her neck, heavy through her hair. She was really gone, jaw slack and her breathing deep, and so he rubbed his thumb along her cheekbone and let his other hand explore.

Her ass was slick with arousal.

Fuck. Holy shit, was that hot. It must have dripped when he had flipped them and gone at her missionary style, rolled back to settle in the seam of her ass. She was puckered and tight, no admittance, and he wondered if she’d ever done it before, if anyone had ever put a few fingers inside her or even a cock.

He wanted to do that. Next time, he’d slide his hand to her ass and press his fingers in, shallowly, while she came, see what happened.

Huh, maybe he should ask? Damn, he didn’t know the rules to civilian fucking. It could be that ass play was a thing normal people didn’t do. And fuck, maybe he shouldn’t just surprise it on her.

Holy shit, when had he ever cared?

He groaned and closed his eyes. He’d never had civilian ass before. Civilian anything. Sex was part of the job, and that one time it hadn’t been-

She had tried to kill him. Damn bitch. Because, lo and behold, the woman had been doing her job, while he had been tricked, conned, fooled into something like puppy love.

Betrayed.

Fuck, he needed to stop thinking about Colleen when he had Kate Beckett’s exposed beautiful body sprawled on top of him.

For now, he let his fingers slide around her ass in their arousal, slicking to the lips of her sex, so wide open for him like this. His own cock, pulsing a little with his heartbeat, and her close hot inside thighs. He liked the heat of her, how it radiated, loved even more how her legs were draped at his waist, leaving her open so that he could touch.

Vulnerable to him. He felt the root of his cock and slid his fingers around the place where they were joined, tensing his abs to reach. She shivered and shifted in her sleep, but she didn’t wake, and he kept touching, that thick and slippery come mixed with arousal.

No condom. He’d never done that before. And what an asshole thing to do to her, shove his cock inside her and only then worry about protection? She’d kept going and she’d gone again and again, so she must know it worked, the birth control.

He wouldn’t mind if it hadn’t. His father always said Leave no trace behind. But wouldn’t it be strange to find his own face looking back at him some morning? What if he came back in a year to look her up and found his son at her breast?

Fucking hell. No.

No.

The birth control she’d roughly mentioned must be an IUD, or else there was no way in hell Kate Beckett would’ve done this with him. The off chance of raising a kid with a spy? Or even the half-truth was bad enough - a career Army man who would always be overseas wasn’t at all the kind of father she’d want for her children. Holy shit, this woman did not want children.

No, Kate Beckett didn’t want to procreate. She wanted to fuck.

The thick arousal under his fingers was proof of just how very much.

Time to wake her up.

\-----

He actually had two fingers inside her sex and his thumb teasing her hole when she woke up with a shuddering gasp. It took her a long, heart-thundering second, but he kept stilled his fingers inside her until she was there with him.

“Rick,” she moaned. Her mouth opened and her teeth bit his bare chest, her groan going on and on and vibrating his nipple.

Fuck, that was good. His cock had slipped out while he’d been trying to subtly shift her wider to him, but that had been fine since he got to finger her instead. Now he wished he was inside her again, to feel that moan as she breathed through it.

“What - what are you doing to me?” she groaned. “And why the fuck did you stop.”

“Finger fucking you, love. Surely you’ve done it? Or had it done to you.”

“Fuck,” she grunted. Her hips gave a little sloppy jerk that he took to mean faster but he slowed down, explored the tight ring of her ass instead.

She sucked in a breath but didn’t tense, at least not in a bad way, although her knees started to squeeze his hips and her arousal was beginning to coat his stomach. He wished so badly she was around his cock, but he didn’t want to move his fingers out of her nor give up this steady incursion at her ass.

He moved his middle finger deeper into her sex and turned his head to licked her temple, a wet kiss at her eyebrow. She was groaning under her breath like she wanted to stop the noise but couldn’t, and so he pressed inward with this thumb even as he stroked her inside walls.

“Whoa, fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck. That’s - oh. Oh, please. Please don’t stop.”

She was begging him, writhing hard down onto his hand, her mouth at his pec and her teeth sinking into his muscle. He flexed and she gasped, jerking, his thumb plunging in and out again with the motion.

“Push inside me,” she moaned. “Please. I want - you feel so good. I want both.”

Both. Wait, what, both?

She was rocking her hips desperately now, hitting his erection every time she thrust back for his fingers.

“Love, hey, slow down a second. I’ll give you what you want, but I need you to tell me exactly-”

“Fuck me,” she growled. “Put your cock where it belongs and then - then - whatever that is that you’re-” She groaned when he nudged his thumb inside, and all of her brash and grit fell apart. She was grinding against him, eyes tightly closed, hands gripping his shoulders.

So he reached down with his free hand and guided his erection towards his already occupied fingers, slicked himself with her arousal. She moaned and her knees squeezed him, her breath coming in sharp pants. He gripped her hip and angled her back down on his cock.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered. “That’s good. Right where you belong.”

His heart started to pound, racing blood so fast through his body that his cock pulsed with it and thickened, growing harder. She moaned and squirmed down on him, reached back for his hand and squeezed his fingers.

“Now that. How you were touching my ass. Do that again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he rasped. She was staring down at him intently, waiting for it, a little tense, but his fingers were already soaked with her arousal. He pressed a palm to her back and guided her down to him, her chest crushed against his and the angle of his cock inside her making them both groan.

“You fill me up,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “Like this.” He swiped his wet fingers down her spine and spread her ass cheeks with his hands. She bucked and moaned, apparently just the anticipation getting to her.

“Hurry,” she whispered. “Hurry. Please.”

He stroked his hands between her ass cheeks and along the still-slippery pucker of her anus. He fondled her for a little while, around her folds, around his cock, spreading more of her arousal and getting her used to the sensation of something between her cheeks. She was whimpering now, her inside walls clutching in spasms that made him grit his teeth.

“You ever have someone touch you like this?” he growled.

“No,” she breathed. “Never knew it - this feels so good.”

“Yeah, love. You feel amazing.”

She brushed her lashes against his chest and pressed her forehead against his sternum like she could barely stand it.

Rick pressed his finger into her ass, just the tip, a shallow little stroke.

She fluttered around his cock, tiny grips of her inside walls that made him moan.

“More. Oh, I need - I need that. I need you to fill me up.”

He withdrew his finger and slicked it up with her arousal, and then he pushed back inside her ass.

She bucked her hips back into his hand, her breath caught in her throat. “Whoa. Rick. I - that - don’t stop. Move inside me. All of you. Move-”

He thrust his hips and she gasped, clutching him with her knees, and he used the downward thump of her body to push his finger higher inside her ass. She groaned, deep and guttural, and he found her mouth with his, sucking down the sounds she made.

He fucked her ass with his finger, twisting and curling, able to stroke his own erection through the thin inner wall, hooking the ring around her anus and stretching it until she was thrusting wildly against his cock.

She came screaming his name, battering her body against his, her sex contracting hard and forceful around him. He kept pumping until her ass seemed to reject him, and then he gripped her hips and pounded into her, taking the very last she had to offer.

She came again when he did, her cry hoarse and pleading for him, her arms wrapped around his neck like she had nothing left at all.

\-----

She was flat out over his chest and struggling for breath; Richard could feel every jar of her heartbeat because it shook the whole bed.

She gulped down another lungful of air and he heard her throat working, words attempted but not quite made. He said nothing either, only stroked his hands up and down her back and tried not to make his goose bumps worse.

He was shivering.

He never got cold. It wasn’t the cold. It was the way she felt around him. Like she was within him, like she was inside.

No, clearly, it’d been his cock in her sex and not - it wasn’t like he’d been penetrated, but it just - he was having trouble finding a way to explain to himself what exactly or why specifically...

“Kate,” he croaked, slamming his eyes shut in mortification as he heard his own voice crack.

She didn’t even grunt, let alone say anything; she just clutched his shoulders and buried her mouth against his chest and sucked in every breath.

Okay, at least it wasn’t just him. At least it was both of them, because fuck, he was 32 years old and if her ten-years-younger sexual experiences could at all hold a candle to that mind-blowing, intense, soul-shaking eruption then he had been doing it wrong.

She was only twenty-two. And she was still shaky and hiding her face against him and maybe he should reassure her that - fuck, fuck - yes, it was a damn two-way street here.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

He had no other words; he only wrapped his arms around her and turned to lie them face-to-face on their sides. But she wouldn’t look at him, still breathing fast and flush with sex, her skin melted to his.

He wanted this forever. For all time. If it was always like that between them, he would never want to give her up.

“It’s... that was... holy fuck, Kate. I might die.”

She grunted then, something like a laugh, close enough. She turned her cheek to lay against his shoulder and he curled his arm up around her neck, fingers stroking through her hair as he kept her close.

He didn’t even need to ask if she’d liked that; he knew she had liked that. Very much. And yet, he could’t help asking. “You liked that?”

“I wanna do that again,” she hummed.

He cursed and slipped his hand between her legs, stroked her sex.

Her hips bucked against his thigh in a lewd, nasty little jerk and he groaned in a kind of panicky desperation, his cock struggling but not quite able to recover. Not after so many rounds straight.

“Give me ten minutes,” he promised.

“Ten? You can come back from that in ten minutes? You’re fucking - that’s crazy. I meant - shit - I meant that like someday in the future. I am remembering that move for the next one.”

He felt his body seize, breath stop. The next one? Not him. Some other guy. Someone else who got to seduce her back to her bedroom and make her come one after another just to see the way her throat arched, to feel her sex contracting around him.

“No,” he refused. “You think that’s going to happen with just anyone? You think I haven’t tried that move before - all my moves - with other women before you-”

She slapped her palm against his chest and it stung. “Talking about all the other women you’ve had isn’t exactly the way to get a chance to do that again.”

“And talking about some asshole you’re going to invite home with you next and how he gets the benefit of all my hard work isn’t fucking pleasant either,” he growled, gripping her shoulder and rolling on top of her. Her eyes sparked in warning. “But what I’m telling you is this - it won’t happen with him like it happened with me, Beckett. That kind of orgasm - that fucking connection - won’t happen with another woman like it happened with you. Trust me on this. Ten years on you and I’ve got the experience and it says - no. No. This never happens. This isn’t ordinary.”

She stared up at him, a mixture of horror and something else on her face. Something he couldn’t read.

He shook his head and ground his hips into her groin, felt the wetness still on her thighs and his own answering heat. “So give me ten minutes, and then I’ll show you again how extraordinary this is.”

\-----

He came back to her bedroom with a hard-on and a tupperware container of only-slightly shriveled grapes. She saw both and started laughing, harder than maybe he liked, but she plucked a grape from the stem and popped it into her mouth, sucked on the fruit.

“Mmm, juicy,” she hummed.

Oh, oh that’s what she was going for?

“I can certainly let you try,” he murmured. And now he was having erotic thoughts about her sucking on his balls with that mouth, her tongue circling around and around before she sank her teeth-

Fuck. Whoa. Fuck, hold up. He had to get this ride under control.

“Sustenance first,” he said, cocking a finger at her in rebuke.

She gave him a Mona Lisa smile and gathered a handful of grapes, put them all in her mouth. He watched for as long as he could stand it, and then he tried a few grapes himself.

Not too bad. Old, but not dried up quite yet. He rolled one around on his tongue, placed it between his teeth and sucked at the end, wondering if he could pull the flesh out from the skin, and then he bit down and the juice dribbled over his lip.

He lifted a hand to catch it, but suddenly Kate’s mouth was there, sucking hard on his lip and moaning, straddling his lap and bumping her wet sex into his cock.

He groaned back and wrapped his arms around her, dragged her by her hips towards his crotch. She started rocking against him, hard, and he realized he’d been seducing her with those grapes as much as she’d seduced him.

Fucking awesome two-way street.

He reached around and palmed her ass, slapped her lightly and then dipped his fingers into her cream. She gasped and jerked against him, her forehead crashing into his in that way he now knew meant she was surprised and fucking turned on.

He stroked between her ass and down to her clit, rubbing at her entrance before sliding back to circle his finger there too. She was moaning and shifting her hips in a desperate dance between his hand and his cock, like she couldn’t decide which she wanted more.

Her hand came down between them and wrapped around his cock, stroking, burning, so good. “All your other women do this?” she growled into his mouth.

“What - what women?” he grunted, eyes squeezed shut and fingers curling at her ass.

“Good answer.”

“What?” he moaned, confused, bewildered, in crazy desperate need of her. “What is - I don’t - oh, shit. Kate. Let me - let me inside you. I need inside you for this.”

“You gonna come?” she rasped. Her hand pumped and stroked, slick and hot, and he realized then she was dipping into her own arousal to coat his cock, bent over him and working hard. “Rick. You gonna come when you get there?”

“Inside you, Kate. Please. Let me just-”

“You like that, baby? How it feels to let go when you’re buried so deep.” Her mouth came to his and her breath was hot and her tongue touching his lips, his tongue. “How it feels without a condom. So raw, skin on skin.”

“Fuck,” he shouted, hips bucking sharp. He orgasmed without warning, his come jetting out between them. She milked him as he shot off, his seed painting her thighs and her hand and looking so damn pornographic that immediately his cock thickened for more.

She squeezed him, and her head lifted so that he felt his own gaze drawn up to hers. This time, like this, with him utterly sucked into her spell and under her power, now she saw it.

He could tell by the look in her eyes, by the primitive fear dwelling there - and the need.

“You’re still hard,” she whispered. Her thumb, sticky with his come, stroked along the top of his shaft and then down to his head, making his hips jump. She slipped back down to tease his balls. “Rick. You’re hard for me.”

“Every fucking second,” he guttered.

“Then let’s get you inside where it’s warm,” she murmured. She spread her thighs over his lap and raised up just enough, drew his cock into her as she lowered herself down.

He felt the whine in his chest like a damn dog, but he couldn’t suppress it.

Felt so good inside her.

She sank all the way down and shifted her hips - and he went a little deeper and tighter.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He cursed a lot with her, he realized, and the words were beginning to lose their power so often had he been forced to use them. “Kate.”

Better. Much better. Her name would never lose its power.

“Kate, this is - heaven,” he whispered. He nuzzled his mouth into hers and sipped from her lips, reverent. “Oh, love, let me just stay right here.”

Her inward muscles contracted sharply, pulling on him, and he sucked in a breath, gripping her hips.

“You fill me so - so full,” she admitted at his ear. Her fingers caressed his flanks lightly, teasing and wet little moths. “You’re bigger than - you’re so thick and long. I love being able to make you come all over - out of control - and still have some left for this.”

“Yes,” he hissed, in agony as he held deeply still inside her. He wanted so badly to root around and fuck her hard, but he wanted more than that the chance to make her just as out of control.

When he thought he could move without losing it, he slid his hands along her thighs to her ass, his new favorite place.

“Oh,” she gasped, rising up a little and falling back down.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, forehead crashing into hers at just that one little move. “Baby, I’m - wow.”

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

He stroked her cheeks around and around, a little rough, a little harsh with it, letting her feel the broadness of his palm. And then spread her ass out at his thighs and laid his fingers in her crack.

She was fluttering around his cock already.

He used one finger to press against that resistance, let her focus all her concentration on that one sensation - the relentless, interminable push inside - and then he braced his feet on the floor and snapped his hips up hard.

She screamed as she orgasmed, a fierce and thunderous rush of contractions. He had to hold onto her through it, gripping her around her shoulders to keep her in his lap, to keep from exploding himself.

But it went on and on, the clutch of her inside walls grower even more fierce, tighter, squeezing, until his own climax was ripped out by his fucking balls.

He grunted through the last of it and flopped back to the mattress, bringing her down with him. His cock slipped out and she fell to one side, but her limbs were sprawled all over him and she was laughing through her breaths.

“Oh, that’s - so fucking good. This is the best I’ve ever had.”

Richard grinned up at the ceiling and jerked upright, flipping to hover over her, their legs off the bed and tangling. “Oh, yeah?”

Her eyes narrowed, immediate defense coming to shore her up, but Richard leaned in and kissed her hard.

“Me too. You’re the best I’ve ever had. By a long margin.”

She rolled her eyes and brought her arm around his neck, hooked him close for a kiss that couldn’t disguise her delight.

She liked him.

\-----

Richard found himself watching the clock.

Was four in the morning too early to wake her for another round? That would be two hours of sleep, and didn’t most people - normal people - couldn’t they function on two hours?

Did she have work tomorrow? Yeah, probably. She was a cop though, right? Yeah, yeah cops could go on two hours’ sleep just like the military; they were trained for it.

Maybe not. No, in fact he was thinking now that the police academy didn’t train at all like Special Forces. Shit. He should’ve known that.

Maybe he should give her... three hours?

No, wait. Double his usual. Four then. If Richard himself could be mission-ready on two hours and make it the next morning in hostile territory, then Beckett would need four to survive the streets of New York.

He definitely wanted her to survive.

Fuck, four hours sleep meant six in the morning. Would she have to be leaving then? When the fuck did she have to leave for work? Shit. Shit. That last one might been the last one. The last of her.

Either way, to fuck or not to fuck, he needed to get out of her bed if he was going to survive another two hours. His cock was already aching, half-hard and sensitive to the touch. And if he was rubbed raw, her sex had to be sore; they’d had some intense rounds.

Fuck, get out of bed. Now.

Richard slid out from under the covers and padded barefoot down the hall and into the bathroom, felt the cool air blow over his ankles from the living room. He paused in the doorway, on heightened alert at the wash of cold air, the disturbance it made.

He ignored the urge to pee and instead moved cautiously for the front room, thinking back to be sure he really had shut the door after them.

Fuck, he had no idea if he’d locked it.

Holy shit, he was losing it.

Richard stalked into the living room, body low and ready, coiled for an attack that never came. The front door was closed but the kitchen windows had been tilted open to let in yesterday’s fresh air - and then they’d never been sealed again. It was probably fifty degrees in her apartment now, and even though he never felt the cold, he bet Kate would.

He moved into the kitchen and pressed the angled glass back into place, flipping the locks over the casements. They were difficult to turn and he wondered if she locked her windows at all, or if she relied on height and the difficult placement of her apartment to deter would-be burglars.

Richard didn’t like that thought.

He hunted around for the thermostat, found that she hadn’t yet switched to heat. It’d been mild for November, but the temperature was dropping rapidly this week, he remembered that from the debrief intel he’d been given before coming.

Like his week-long furlough was a mission in and of itself. Mission: vacation. Richard knew he was better at a mission than he ever was at relaxing, but at least this time-

He was actually having fun. He didn’t want to go back.

Richard debated it a moment longer and decided against turning on her furnace. He wasn’t sure what the set-up was like, and it could be that it was broken or faulty and she hadn’t gotten it repaired yet. He didn’t want to accidentally set the place on fire, or somehow turn on the pilot’s light and fill the room with gas.

He knew all the worst-case scenarios, and having Kate Beckett snuggle up to him because she was cold seemed like a win-win.

So he walked back down the hallway, stopped in the bathroom, washed his hands, and went back to bed.

An hour and forty-seven minutes to go.

\-----

She’d had three hours and twenty-three minutes of sleep, and really, that had to be plenty. It was nearly six in the morning and he didn’t know when her alarm might ring and he wanted more.

She was pretty well passed out, and he hovered close and studied her face, hoping that just watching her a lot would penetrate the dense veil of sleep.

He had a feeling that Kate Beckett did not care to be studied.

But it didn’t wake her. He thought if she ‘woke on her own,’ then it would be okay to roll over her and nestle his cock between her legs and kind of just rock against her until they were both well and truly awake.

Okay, he was already awake. But he really could use the strong jolt of her body meeting his, the way it dumped instant arousal through his blood like caffeine pills and ephedrine.

Twenty-five minutes now. Closer.

Fuck. Close enough.

He knew a really fun way to wake her up too, make her forget all about how nice and cozy her sleep had been.

Thankfully, Beckett had fallen asleep on her side, facing him, and all he had to do was slide his hand under her neck and gently ease her onto her back.

And then he went down her body and straddled his elbows at her hips, lowered his shoulders until he could press his nose between her thighs. He inhaled slowly, smelling sex and sleep and warmth, and then he braced himself on one forearm and coaxed her knees apart.

He slid his arms under her thighs to keep her legs from stretching too wide and having the discomfort waking her, and then he positioned himself perfectly at her vulnerable, shadowed sex.

It was dark under the covers, no early winter sunlight to guide his way, but he could feel the heat she was putting off, all that sex, her body still flush with them. He dipped his nose and brushed her inside thigh, let his cheek do a slow rasp along her skin to her hip.

Her muscles shivered at his touch.

He pressed his mouth in a kiss to that soft place where her ass cheek started to form but could still be called her thigh. Her curls touched his cheek and lips, erotic little wisps of kinky hair reaching out for him.

She smelled like tang and wild cherries, bitter with a promise of kick. He was desperate to taste her, suck down that flesh from the stem of her sex and roll the pit around his teeth. Vodka and pomegranate, the burn of arousal meeting the citrus spice of her flavor.

Still he waited, breathing her in and nuzzling his nose against the crease of her hip, letting his exhales stir a passage to her sex. He wanted to ease into it and if he didn’t pace himself right now he’d just bury his face in her and take a big bite.

He had to calm down, get it under control. Wake her slowly, so that she slipped from wet dream to reality in a seamless movement. Wake her so that she sighed and curled her fingers around his ear like she had earlier tonight, that lovely little sigh of pleasure that meant everything - trust and beauty and adoration, if only for just a second, if only for the way he made her feel.

Richard nosed closer, slid his hand down her inside thigh to put his thumb against her slit. He couldn’t see anything like this, and he regretted it, but there was something heady about the blindness, the dark of a blanket and the heat of her near his face.

She shifted in her sleep, her hips rocking a little, like a quiver, and he knew he had to get going before she came all the way up to awareness.

Richard touched two fingers to either side of her sex, slowly spread her lips and folds, heard the wet sticky sound they made as he moved her. Her thigh under his ear twitched, the muscles working in anticipation of a thing they couldn’t see, only feel.

He touched his tongue to the lowest fold of her sex, licked firmly up her slit to the pinnacle. She had a stuttering breath for that move and her legs shifted just under his cheeks. He rubbed his scruff along her inside thighs, humming approval right at her sex.

Her hips jumped when his mouth hovered close; a groan slipped out of her but no more. Richard kissed first one side, stroking with his tongue along the inside lip - still creamed with her arousal - and then he kissed the other side, sucking harder this time.

She mewled and her thighs clamped around his ears, her feet kicking up and hooking hard into his ribs. Richard tried to gentle her with deep massages of her inside thighs, pushing into those pressure points that caught her nerves and made her twitch and finally relax.

Her hands came to the back of his head and fisted in his hair, some kind of command he didn’t know yet. So Richard set his mouth against her and stroked and sucked, a rhythm of sweet give and fierce take, holding her down by her thighs.

She clutched him harder, her body curling up and dropping the covers so that they pooled at her waist and the back of his neck, but he didn’t stop. He shifted his elbow into one thigh and used his fingers to penetrate her sex, letting the combined friction push her towards the edge.

She started cursing, every few words punctuated by a rolling thrust of her hips, her feet hooked behind his lower back and trying to dig him closer. He pushed two fingers inside her and worked the edges of her arousal, deep and fast, his mouth still over the sensitive places at her clit and around it.

When he slid his tongue down a strip of her sex just to one side of her clit, she seemed to arc as if possessed, writhing and moaning his name, not even able to issue her usual commands.

Richard sucked harder and made his fingers thrust in a constant metronome of movement, rooting with his mouth and tongue against her sex.

He found the bud of her clit with the arrow of his tongue, and he angled it up to hit his teeth.

“Holy fuck!”

One rolling nip and she was coming apart around his mouth, her hands gripping his hair and the back of his t-shirt so tightly that he knew he’d feel nail marks for hours.

She collapsed to the mattress and slithered out from under him, closing her knees and curling up, panting hard.

He snaked his way back up beside her and tasted her on his lips, had to run his tongue along his teeth for more of it.

She kicked her foot out and caught his shin, slapped his bare shoulder with her quick hand. “What’d you do that for?” she growled.

He stared at her, rocking back from the kiss he’d been about to bestow. “Why’d I - didn’t you like that? You fucking sounded like you liked it - you sounded completely undone.”

“You shouldn’t - that’s not something you need to do,” she said, lying flat on her stomach now as if in self-defense.

He propped his head up on one hand, elbow crooked. “That’s where you’re wrong, Beckett. That is most definitely something I need to do. And once more before we leave this bed. You taste like cream and coffee - rich and bitter.”

Beckett stared at him.

Wait. Wait a second. She - did she not know that?

Richard slid in close and wrapped his hand around her waist, quickly slid around her ass to cup some of her arousal in his fingers. He brought his hand up and touched her lips. “Taste yourself.”

“I know what I taste like,” she growled. “I’m not - you’re not supposed to be fucking me when I’m asleep.”

“Oh, but, love, sometimes that’s the most fun. Hiding in the dark under the covers, smelling you, your sex filling up the small space.”

“You’re a fucking pervert.” Her knees knocked into him, but he quickly drew his arms around her, resumed his place between her legs. His fingers stroked around and around, teasing her ass and pushing soft little thrusts against her womb. She grunted something dirty and gave it up, hooking her knee at his hip and pushing herself closer.

“One more time, one more time,” he chanted softly, breathing against her neck.

She mewled and shivered, and her hands came to his ears as if to stop him.

And then shoved.

He rolled her to her back again, spreading that thigh wide, and he had to lie on her other leg just to insinuate his shoulders between her legs. She growled but he was already there, lowering his mouth to her sex again. Her fingers tightened at his ear, her breath gave a pitiful little stutter.

This time he knew exactly what to do.

And she knew exactly what was coming.

\-----

Since it would be her second orgasm in a row, and in the same style, he knew the build would be slow. He didn’t have to worry about teasing her or getting her wet enough; she was already soaked and his every touch was almost too sensitive.

He made his strokes firm, his mouth sucking and biting now, sharper pressure, tangier fruit. She was gripping his ears like she had to hold on but didn’t know what to do, and he focused his attention on her clit.

She bucked into his mouth and he hummed for it; she stuttered on a scream, her throat raw and her voice rasping out. Rick pushed her thighs wider - he kept having to hold her down - and he angled his fingers between her ass cheeks.

She gasped and ground her sex into his mouth, a wicked noise ripped from her chest, and so he pushed two fingers inside her.

“Oh, oh-”

He went deep, to his his knuckles, hitting his own chin as he continued sucking on her clit. She was pitching into him and he had less leverage to hold her down, so her knee kept pressing into his neck, her toes digging into his ribs as she writhed. It was wild and uncontrolled and he sucked harder, started curling his fingers up to hit her walls.

He found her g-spot immediately, a thickened patch inside that tensed when he pushed, echoed in her stomach and vibrated in her thighs. It was obvious she didn’t let anyone go down on her, more obvious she’d had no idea it could be this good. He wanted to dazzle her, blow her mind with it, so he worked furiously at her g-spot, pressing up hard.

She orgasmed in rough, shouted curses, her body working itself off against his curled, tense fingers, her grip on his ears so tight he thought she might draw blood.

When she finally collapsed back onto the mattress, she was slick with sweat and breathing hard. Rick crawled up her body and threw the covers off, grinned down at her as she tried to recover.

“How’s that for breakfast?” he rasped. “Wanna taste?”

She growled and jerked up into him, her mouth hot and intense on his, sucking on his tongue and stroking through his teeth, getting all of it. He could taste her sex and her mouth together, like she’d been somewhere naughty, and it made his cock so hard he rocked into her hips in response.

She broke the kiss and lowered her mouth to his jaw, bit at his scruff and pulled with her teeth. Rick scratched his fingers down her sides and shifted her hips under his body, rubbed his cock between her dripping wet sex.

“Fuck, fuck,” she moaned. “You gotta put it in.”

“So eloquent-”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck cares about poetry when you are this close?” she growled. Her hand reached between them and she grabbed him by the balls, choking the breath from him.

His vision began to black out, but just then she began to massage, slowly and tenderly, taking all the sharp sting out of it, winding his arousal so tight he might cry.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, you gotta let me put it in.”

“Didn’t I just say that?” she whispered at his neck. Her hand was merciless, dragging his arousal so fiercely up to the surface that he had trouble keeping himself from crashing into her.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Poe-poetry. Pure fucking poetry, Kate Beckett, now let me inside you or I am going to spill all over that rich-tasting sex of yours.”

“My cunt,” she grunted. “Say it. My cunt.”

“Your cunt is fucking amazing,” he growled, pressing his nose into hers and his forehead hard to her head, wanting to crush something, overwhelmed by the burn of her hand on his balls. “Your cunt tastes like a martini and I am fucking drunk.”

“Now that was poetry,” she snarked.

Rick shut up talking and shifted to one elbow, reached between them to knock her hand away and get at her sex. Cunt. Her fucking cunt. Shit, he loved it when she said stuff like that.

He swiped quickly at her clit, once, two times, burning her with the friction just so she’d know how it felt, and then he angled his cock to her entrance. Her hand came back but this time she wrapped it around the base of his erection and squeezed, guided him herself.

He moaned as she took him inside, his cock sinking into hot, tight paradise. Kate wrapped her arms around him and arched, taking him deeper, and then she rolled them onto their sides.

He was amazed by her. She was watching his face and timing her strokes to the fierce need that burst across him whenever he hit exactly right, and she didn’t even have to do that. He was a damn guy; he’d come no matter what, but she was making it exquisite.

He gripped the back of her neck and she moaned, arching harder, a little more uncontrolled. Rick tested it out, pressing his thumb to her carotid artery and squeezing, and she gasped, her heart pounding so hard under his fingers that he couldn’t keep a handle on it.

She started fucking in earnest, hard and intense jolts of her hips, and he met her thrust for thrust, feeling his balls tightening and his cock harden. She cried out and crashed her mouth to his, sucking and biting him, desperate and writhing within his arms, and then she came with a furious grind of her hips.

He pushed her onto her back and rooted dark and hard inside her, breaking his back to get at her breasts, sucking on her nipple for the bitter flavor of her body.

She drew her knees up to his armpits and suddenly he was striking so deep, so tightly, that it crushed him, squeezed the breath right out of him, and he orgasmed with a soundless, desperate fury.

\-----

“After you fuck me,” she whispered at his ear, “I can feel it all thick and swollen between my legs. Raw and abused and pulsing.”

He groaned. His cock was still inside her and if she kept talking like that, he’d have to take her again.

“I love that feeling,” she murmured. “How cracked open I feel, cracked open and poured into, filled up.”

“I’m gonna get hard if you keep talking, Beckett.”

“That’s the point.” She rubbed her knuckles against his spine and he felt each bump and jolt of her fingers down his back. “I love being fucked. And you do it so well.”

“Shit,” he moaned.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. Oh, hell, no. No. You’re the best I’ve ever had. You’ve got the mouth of a dominatrix and the orgasm of a novice. It’s the best fucking combination ever.”

She went still, palm flat to his back. “What does - what’s the orgasm of a novice?”

“Novice is the word you have a problem with?” he laughed.

“What does that mean? What is that to say to someone-”

“It means you fall completely the fuck apart. You hurtle yourself at an orgasm sometimes, like you’re trying to break your neck.”

“Oh.”

“I like to see if I can pace you.”

“You’re making it into a game?” she mused. She sounded interested.

“See what I can do,” he said, shrugging and rolling off of her, his cock burning as he pulled out. “See how far I can take you, how far I can manage to hold on.”

“I liked it when you just fucking went after it. Attacked me with it. Maybe that’s because I - what did you say? - I break my neck for an orgasm.”

He laughed and turned his head to look at her, sweat-slicked and gorgeous in her bedroom light. He shifted to his side and propped his head on his hand, reached out with his other one to lay it over her belly, sliding up to rub his thumb along her breast.

“You like it rough, Beckett?” He squeezed her breast. “You had an intense reaction when I gripped your neck.”

“Yeah,” she answered, as if that were obvious. Oh, it was. Yes, it was.

“You come fastest when it’s rough. But you come harder when I take my time.”

“How would you know?” she retorted, but she was taking deeper breaths, filling his hand with her breast.

“When I woke you up eating you out - that was taking my time. You screamed for me.”

“That was only because I never let-” She stopped and grunted, shifting beside him, a knee coming up.

“Because you never let...”

“Anyone... do that.”

“Do - never? You never let anyone give you oral sex?”

“No. It’s - not necessary. It’s - it takes too long,” she muttered. “I just want to fuck, Rick. Oral is all this licking and soft little puny strokes and I want a cock. Just. Fuck. Fuck.”

He was already hard and she was looking at his cock like she was imagining it, and he really wanted to have her impaled once more, but this was too good. This conversation.

“You see how hard I am?” he growled.

She licked her bottom lip. “Yeah.”

“Hearing you talk about it like that. Makes me fucking hard as a rock, Beckett.”

“Talk about which part? Your cock or-”

“How you like it. How you want to be touched and how you don’t even know sometimes until I do it. Like when I tasted you.”

She rolled her eyes but there was a vulnerability there that made him even harder. She huffed and squirmed her hips. “I never let anyone go down on me because it’s worthless, but you did it twice and both times it was - fuck - it was intense.”

“Good?”

“You know it was.”

“You’d let me do it again? Because you taste like sex. And the way you go at it, Kate, fuck, it gets me. You just throw yourself into it and it’s artless and desperate and I love the feeling of your thighs strangling me, I love-”

He stopped, unable to speak, throat closing up with how much he wanted her, so very badly did he want her, and he’d just had her.

“What do you want?” she whispered, rolling onto her side to face him. “Tell me what you like. How you like it. How you didn’t even know it until it’s me doing it to you.”

“Everything you’ve done to me has been like that.”

“What do you want me to do right now? If you could have anything. What would you want?”

His blood pounded with a thousand images, stories he wanted to tell her so she’d make them come true.

“All of it, all over again,” he said, giving her a pitiful look because he did. He wanted all of it, and choosing felt like torture. All of her.

“You’re already hard,” she murmured, eyes casting down to where his erection bobbed against his stomach. “I could take you inside me again. I love that feeling, slick and hot and so full. I know you like it there.”

He grunted and felt his body growing heavy with need, drugged with it, how he wanted her over him, around him, but he couldn’t get at her.

“But we just did it like that, didn’t we? Maybe you want it a little differently this time. I could press my knees together and make it so tight you scream.”

He gasped and she reached her hand to his hip, traced her fingers along the bone, teasing.

“Or I could lie under you and you could straddled my ribs, thrust your cock between my breasts. I’ve never much understood why that’s so great - isn’t it so much nicer down where it’s hot and close?”

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“Maybe that’s your fantasy?”

“I think you’ve got my fantasy going already,” he croaked. “Your voice. And how you talk to me.”

“That’s working for you, baby?” She slid closer and her fingers trailed across abdomen, so very close to his cock. “You think you can come in the air, just listening to me talk you through it?”

“Yeah,” he ground out. “Yes. You - with you, yeah.”

“Feel free to thrust your hips,” she hummed. “I love to see you coming unhinged for me. The power I have over you. How your eyes kinda roll back and you gnash your teeth. It’s fucking sexy to do that to you.”

“You - you’re just - so good.” His hips were already bucking a little.

“When we were out on the couch and I felt you inside me for the first time - oh, that was so good. That was so good, Rick. I don’t get it regular, you know, because work is just - it’s all about that for me - so I’ll blow off steam, take the edge off like once a year. And this year it’s you, soldier.”

“Fucking hell, lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” she chuckled. “But when you pushed up into me, when you filled me up, it was like the best kind of stretching, tearing me open. Never been like that. I’ve got toys, I can take it pretty thick-”

“Whoa, fuck.”

“You like that, huh? I finger fuck myself, but I love the big thick cock, the toy that pushes and stretches, and you were even better.”

He couldn’t help the jerk of his hips at the fucking dark sexiness in her voice, the light skim of her fingernails around his stomach.

“That first time, Rick, I thought it couldn’t get better than that. That first stretch and push inside me so that it hurts, so rough and deep, and I thought that was the best of it, that was all I wanted.”

He groaned and humped the air, shameless and desperate. She pressed her hand into his hip and seemed to want to ride it with him.

“But I was wrong. There has been so much more - better - harder. I love it rough - you found that out - but you also made it slow and earth-shattering. Never had it like that before. Never wanted it until tonight.”

“Gonna - fuck - gonna do that to you all fucking day. Make you break down for how good it can be.”

“Make me? I want to see you try.”

“I know you do,” he growled, but his hips were pumping into the air now, lost in the silky texture of her sound and the roughness of her voice.

“Even this, talking to you like this, watching you fuck the air because you need it so badly and I won’t take it - watching you and knowing it’s because of me? That has me so wet I’ve got to touch myself.”

“Touch yourself,” he growled, his eyes snapping to hers and then darting down to her sex. She was. Holy fuck. She was already touching herself under that t-shirt, her knuckles brushing the hem. “Let me see you. Move the shirt, Beckett, I want to see you touching yourself.”

She moaned and sat up, ripped the shirt off her head and sat back on her heels. He could see straight to her sex as she widened her thighs, and she rode her own hand with a grunt.

“Fuck, Kate. You’re so fucking erotic.”

“I can almost feel you. If I close my eyes and think hard, I can feel you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna explode, Kate.”

“I want you to. I need you to. Come on, baby. Break your neck on it.”

He shouted and orgasmed in a burning rope of come, his hips beating the air and his back arching, his thighs rock hard but his eyes fixed on Kate and her hand.

She rubbed herself furiously and rose up to meet her hand, again and again, and he could tell she was getting more and more frustrated, pushed past her orgasm and out to the other side, painfully sensitive.

He’d done that to her too. Ruined her for anything but him.

He dragged his fingers through the come on his chest, reached out and pushed his fingers between hers to cup her sex.

She groaned and dropped forward, rutting into his hand, her orgasm hard and dirty and desperate.

\-----

He stroked her side with his now-dry fingers, her body huddled close to his on the sweaty mattress. She was still breathing in irregular gulps, but she caught his wrist and stilled him.

“Gotta stop or I’m gonna crawl out of my skin,” she panted.

He grinned and made a fist at her hip, snaked his arm around her back instead and yanked her into him. “You talk dirty, Beckett.”

She laughed against his forehead and actually wound her limbs through and around his, pressing their bodies together. He tilted his head down and inhaled the scent of them, the musk of their sex, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

She swatted at him, and he chuckled, squirming under her. She grunted. “Fuck, are you seriously hard again?”

He grinned, flattened his hand against her back. “All your fault, so don’t go complaining.”

She lifted her head from the pillow and knocked her cheek into his chin. “You idiot. You hear me complaining?”

“Hard to know,” he muttered, smoothing her hair down, away from his mouth. “Wanna shower with me? I could fuck you against the wall.”

“You could - except my tub is freestanding and there are no walls, baby.”

He laughed. “That would be an interesting problem to overcome.” He scratched at her back with his fingers and then rooted into the nape of her neck where her hair was soft, smooth. “I only ask because I have dried come on my chest and you do between your legs, so-”

She slapped his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to put a little more effort in your dirty talk, Richard. It’s a little lacking.”

“Wasn’t trying to sex you up, Beckett. You seemed appalled by my erection.”

She growled and bit his pec, hard, and he yelped. She lifted her head again and glared at him. “I am far from appalled, soldier. I was just pointing out that your rebound time is fucking nonexistent - which is unheard of and freaky, like you’re fucking superman - but I am not appalled, just fucked out for the next thirty seconds.”

“Do I need to start a countdown?”

She rolled her eyes and tried to untangle herself from his body, but he wasn’t letting her go. She rocked against him, whined his name in his ear. “You said you wanted to shower, you bully. So come on, asshole. Shower.”

He slapped her ass before she could get away, and she gave him an arch look, but the spark was back.

The fight.

\-----

The shower was less than he'd expected - and also so much more.

He'd intended to do a little fooling around, keep her coming so to speak, but somehow it turned into something entirely different. Something like worship - and not just him of her. As they stood on the bare bathroom tile waiting for the water to heat, pipes groaning, he found himself touching her body, all over, and her hands touching in return.

And not really to seduce her, just to discover her. Map her. He wanted memories of her in vibrant color and intimate texture, and she was just worn out enough, it seemed, to let him memorize every damn inch.

Her hips were a wonder. He palmed her flanks and kneaded her flesh just so he could kneel before her and kissed the rise of her pelvic bone under the skin. She shivered and brought her hands to the top of his head as if giving her blessing, fingers curling at his ear.

He brushed his cheek against the sensitive place between hip bone and navel, and she gave a little cry, that sound of oh and please that she always issued like a confession. Richard tongued the rounded slope below her belly button, suckled lightly at the curve just as she sucked in her breath and everything flattened. He grinned, tilted his head back to see her, found her shivering and throat-arched and trembling.

He lightly tongued her navel and then stood on his feet, hands shifting to frame her hips, her ribs, and then cradle the backs of her shoulders. "Think it's heated enough now."

"Yeah," she breathed. Her eye lashes fluttered and then came open. "Heated."

“The water, love.” He tamped down the grin that wanted out, instead pulled open the shower curtain and stepped over the rim of the tub, leaving her to follow.

And she did. She followed him right in and nudged his body under the spray, slicked her hands down his chest. He felt the peculiar sensation of half-slippery skin against skin, the dried places dampening and growing slick as if lubricated. She leaned in and opened her mouth over the hollow of his throat, lewdly circled her tongue there as he'd done to her navel.

"See how you like it," she muttered. Her voice was low and yet managed to rise above the beat of water on the porcelain bathtub. He loved knowing her voice.

The mist and spray and humidity rose around them. He cupped her shoulders and then the back of her head, loving the feel of her. She hummed against his throat, pressing in closer. His eyes fell to half-mast, his cock throbbing as she touched him.

She skimmed his ribs and across his waist, teased her fingers at the cheeks of his ass and then back around to the tops of his thighs. He grunted and swayed on his feet, the heat and her body so close making him dizzy. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, the hard points of her nipples glancing across his own, electric. But she reached past him and plucked body wash from the caddy hanging from the shower rod.

He grunted something that was either relief or disappointment. Opened his eyes to her.

She was spooling creamy white body wash into the palm of her head and giving him an enchanting smile. As if she knew how fucked he was and was waiting for him to figure it out.

She stepped into him once more, holding one hand aloft to keep the soap out of the spray while she put back the bottle. When she had managed it, Richard himself completely unable and unwilling to move, she stepped fully against him and kissed his throat.

He whimpered.

He actually felt entirely unmanned by her. Ripped his guts out, the way she touched him like this. He hadn't been expecting light and sensual, not when she was so determined to be erotic and lewd.

She coasted soapy hands up his ribs and around the front, coating his chest in slick seduction. He wavered, couldn't help gripping her hips to keep himself standing. She hummed and rubbed her breasts against him, both of them sudsy and heated now, skins slipping and sliding as she did a teasing belly dance in his embrace.

Soap made her hands frictionless and she caressed his back and shoulders, slid under his armpits to the sensitive skin just below. His hips thrust against her without his permission, and then she was cupping his ass and fondling him.

She opened her mouth to his and thrust evocatively with her tongue.

He was lost lost lost.


	4. Chapter 4

Rick spotted her cell phone on the coffee table and scooped it up. She had said something about how she’d set an alarm for work when she’d disappeared back to her bedroom to get dressed. He wasn’t excited about seeing her walk away from him, especially when she’d made noises about this being a one night kind of thing.

He flipped open the phone, a little silver Sanyo with display and a camera function. He hadn’t realized civilian cell phones had the camera option now; this was an expensive model. She had splurged for a phone with a camera? He knew the quality was poor - he could tell just from looking at it - but as he fiddled with the settings, he recognized the expense. Maybe she used it at work, as a police officer, capturing images from a crime scene she was standing guard over or in a convenience store that had been robbed.

His own phone was a Nokia, simple and light and black, nothing at all like the high-end satellite phones he had on mission. But his Nokia was untraceable and could be tossed at a moment’s notice.

Still, he typed in the number he’d memorized and called himself from her phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kate had come out of the bedroom, and she was glaring at him in nothing more than bra and panties.

He grinned and let the phone ring through just to hear what the operator said on the other end. A voice message box which has not been set up yet...

Richard wriggled the phone at her, watched her eyes narrow as she stalked forward. One night and a handful of incredible sexual adventures weren’t enough; he should’ve realized that about her.

“I said. What the hell are you doing?”

“Calling my phone.”

She snatched it from him with a lightning reflex that surprised him; he gave up the cell without even realizing he had, and she ended the call with a jab of her finger.

“You asshole,” she muttered. “Did I offer you my number?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why I had to call my phone. Now I have it and I don’t have to look you up in the phone book. I mean - I do have your address and name, Beckett. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

He could also use the CIA databases, but he couldn’t exactly tell her that.

She put her hand over her face, a long groan that he took to mean she was either pretty sore or not happy with him.

He leaned in and placed a kiss on the back of her hand, and she jerked away. He pretended like she hadn’t, reached for her hips.

“I figured I could call you and we could get dinner tonight,” he went on. Her body kept angling away, but he came after her, reminding her. “After work? Come back here-”

“No,” she spat out. “We’re not having dinner.”

“Oh, I like how you think, Beckett. Come back here, a couple glasses of wine to get you happy after a long day, head straight to bed,” he hummed. He slid an arm around her shoulders and brought her strong body closer. “I could make you forget all about walking the beat.”

“I don’t walk a beat,” she gritted out. “And you’re not hearing me.”

“Well, lunch then,” he murmured. He kissed her neck and touched his tongue to the taut ribbon of muscle. “In the park. Or I could meet you here and make it a quickie.” He laughed at his own eagerness, but the idea caught hold and made his hips nudge into hers.

“I don’t always get a lunch break.” She let out a tight breath and shook her head, pushing him off. “I have to go to work. You have to - you’re not supposed to still be here.”

He stepped back, stared at her as she launched herself towards the far end of the room. “What? I just thought we could-”

“No. Richard,” she huffed, casting a look at him over her shoulder as she headed for the hallway. “You better quit fucking around. I told you I had to go to work.” She slammed the bathroom door closed after her and he heard the water in the sink cut on.

He hurried after her, put his hand on the knob and turned, but she’d locked it.

She’d locked him out.

He cast a mournful look at the door as if he could see her through it, and then he padded back for the bedroom to look at the time.

Only six-fifteen. She meant - she was pretty intense about her job. Okay, well, he understood that, right? So no dinner out, no meeting up on an extended lunch hour; he could adapt. He would think of a new plan.

He dragged on his jeans and hunted for his shirt, found his boxers ruined by the front door. She’d used them to - yeah, well, stop thinking it; wouldn’t do him any good right now to get hard if she was trying to get going. She had a limit for morning sex - he got it. He’d work on that with her. He had a week before Ireland.

He wondered if she had any men’s clothes lying around; he couldn’t find his shirt.

\-----

She stared at him from the threshold to her room, still in nothing but panties and a bra, but an amazing alteration of mascara and eye liner had been artfully applied to her face. Damn, she was hot.

He came in close and leaned in to kiss her bare shoulder, but she smacked the heel of her hand into his forehead and shoved him off. “Why are you still here?” she hissed. “I have work. I told you that.”

“But I figured-”

“Why are you shirtless?” She blazed past him and yanked open the top drawer of her dresser, fished out a black camisole. “You need to get dressed, Rick. Right now.”

“I couldn’t find my shirt,” he defended. “You wear sexy lingerie under your uniform?”

“It’s a fucking camisole.” She yanked it over her head and turned around, finger poking him hard. “You. Need. To. Leave.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. No hanging around while you’re at work. I got it. But I swear - my shirt is lost.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You ripped it off me.”

“Look in the living room, near the door. I’ve got to get dressed and - no, no - you are not allowed to watch.”

He pouted, tried the eyes - he always got stuff from women if he looked at them in this certain way-

“No,” she hissed. “Go. Out there. Away.”

He sighed and turned around, heading barefoot back to the living room. His shirt probably was there anyway, and his socks and shoes. And his phone. It had probably fallen out of his pants pocket when she’d stripped him.

He got dressed, went back to her kitchen to take a better look around. Grapes last night and that was it - he should feed her, right? Since he’d fucked her all night without pause. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could follow directions on a box. Or an MRE, as the case may be.

But she had nothing. Literally nothing. No pancake mix where you just add water, no eggs to scramble - he was really good at scrambled eggs. Not even any TV dinners where he might snag the fruity chicken patty and use it for... something.

Okay, new plan-

“Richard.”

He turned around and his jaw dropped.

Beckett. Officer Beckett. Black, tight-fitting turtleneck that ski sloped over her breasts and was tucked into army-combat black pants. No belt, not fully suited up - must be in her locker at the precinct - but enough to give him fucking fantastic film for later fantasies.

NYPD was in small white letters at the high collar, and she’d severely scraped her hair into a tight knot at the back of her head.

“You look awesome,” he stuttered out.

She frowned, even more serious and dominating than she’d been over him in bed. He was seriously turned on.

“You found your shirt,” she said. “Why are you still here?”

“You don’t have anything for breakfast. Nothing.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

Coffee. She had coffee where? in the meeting room at the precinct? Little styrofoam cup and no sugar, stale creamer that she sometimes gave in and used because the straight black sludge was unpalatable. “Okay, no breakfast. I could walk you to get coffee-”

“No.” She moved to the closet door and yanked it open, pulled down a light jacket also emblazoned with NYPD. She shrugged it on and grabbed keys, stuffed her cell phone inside the jacket pocket. She had already turned for the front door. “I’m going. And so are you.”

Nothing left to him. But he found himself rooted to the spot. “I could-”

She sighed wearily and her shoulders slumped; she closed the door once more and turned around to him, eyes serious and apologetic at the same time. “Look, we could have done this if you could be cool, Richard. But you’re not being cool.”

“Cool?”

“Chill. Relaxed. We could’ve probably fucked a couple more times until you had to go - I mean, you’re leaving in a week and so what? Might as well since the chemistry was there-”

“Is there,” he insisted.

“-and like I said, wouldn’t have been a problem. But this shit? Hanging around, giving me these kicked puppy looks-”

“I was not-”

“-not cool, Richard. I don’t have time to fucking kick you out in the mornings. That doesn’t work for me.”

“What does work for you?” he said, the air pinched at the top of his throat.

She gave him a soft look, a little rote, like she’d played this part often. “Clearly, not you. And I don’t do it for you either. You’re looking for a girlfriend before you go - that’s not me. I have a job, and it’s important to me-”

“I’m not looking for a-” He cut himself off with a growl and rubbed his hand down his face. “I know you have a job. I thought we were pretty great together-”

“It’s the together part that doesn’t work,” she said. Her voice was all steel again; the softness and let you down easy was gone. “You’ve seen what my life looks like - picking up my father from bars so he doesn’t step out into the street and kill himself after a night of drinking and grieving. So-”

“Grieving.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes level on his. He saw her compose herself, draw it together. Everything this tight knot of darkness, and yet so much of it was still that mask. Playing it for effect. “My mother was murdered a few years ago. That’s why I’m a cop. This is serious for me, Richard. This is who I am. We had fun, and I needed that, so thank you. But I spend every waking second on case theory and motive and opportunity - because that case was never closed. I’m only a patrol officer now, but I have plans.” She waved between them dismissively. “So together? Together will never happen.”

He stared at her, the seriousness etched into her face, the calculated and planned revelation of the tragedy of her life. To scare him away. To make him run.

“And now you need to leave,” she said. “I don’t ask for more than I can give. It’s not fair to you to pretend it would be otherwise. So don’t bother coming back, Richard. You’d only get hurt.”

She was serious. She wanted him actually gone. All night of that - that - intensity - such a powerful-

“Rick,” she said quietly. “You don’t want this. You want a girl who will wait for you when you’re shipped overseas. A girl who will write you love letters and want to wear your ring. Don’t give up on that - we all need a dream. Mine is to fucking catch the son of a bitch who murdered my mother.”

She opened the front door and stood, resolute, unbending, iron-willed.

Richard flexed his hands around his emptiness and shuffled forward.

He’d brought nothing with him but a throw-away phone; he was leaving with exactly the same.

The thing was - this was probably the speech he would’ve been forced to give her at the end of the week. You don’t want this life. Never here, never available for sweetheart phone calls, and those love letters would never reach him. Her performance just now would have been exactly his own at the end of the week.

She was right.

So he walked out her door.

\-----

He was cursing himself not five minutes later.

Why had he just let her run right over him? So what if she was obsessed with her job, with her mother’s death and her father’s drinking? Like Richard himself didn’t have issues, like he actually was a normal guy who wanted someone to pine for him while he served?

He wasn’t a fucking soldier. He didn’t want fucking love letters. And yet she’d made him think she was right, she knew best, and he had gone along with it.

Holy fucking hell, she was good. She was good at getting her own way. Well, fuck that. They could totally have amazing sex all week, and he could totally be cool about it.

He was like Mister Cool. Whatever 'together' vibes he'd been throwing out there last night weren't about love letters and a pining sweetheart, they were just - fuck, there had to be some kind of together to have amazing sex like that. That's all, shit. Beckett. She'd shot herself in the foot with that one, really.

Well, he'd show her together. He'd fucking freeze her out, he'd be so cool. This wasn't over.

Richard - no, wait, Rick. Yeah, he could be that guy. Rick. She'd called him that like they were more than just strangers, and he liked it. She had a name for him, this man with no true name, and she wanted a certain identity from him, a set of behaviors and characteristics, and he was damn good at that.

He could be anyone she wanted him to be.

That was his fucking job.

Rick headed for the subway station at the end of the block, started making plans. He rode the line to the end and got back on the train heading the opposite direction, being wary of his surroundings, aware of people. He had a candidate on the subway platform as he switched again, but the man didn't follow, and Rick felt like he'd made a clean trail.

He got on the red line when he was miles from her place, headed for the CIA safe house he'd snagged right out from under his father's nose. There would be a computer he could use, one of the compact kinds where the CPU was housed in the monitor. He was anxious to start winning her back, and he needed to look up a few things, get access to the CIA network.

Usually he called his father about this kind of thing, had Black run him some off-the-books searches or ask around about someone. But Richard's questions had always pertained to some face in a crowd he'd thought he'd seen on a Most Wanted list, or a foreign asset's strange behavior at a meet.

So he didn't call about Beckett. At least, not his father.

He pulled out his Nokia and he called Eastman, his former commanding officer, and his CIA handler. This wasn't exactly Eastman's job, but he needed the help.

"Richard," the man said carefully. "I thought you were on a week's furlough before your assignment in Ireland."

His heart sank at the thought of Ireland - Colleen and Foley, the shit that had gone down last time, that cute kid who'd been trying to help him and had been murdered for it. "Yeah, you're right. I am."

"In New York, right?"

"Yeah, just happened to - yeah. I had a... an encounter. And I need help looking up some stuff in our database."

"You mean building the search query?"

"Yeah, that. If I go through the front portal, it's logged, right? I don't want this to be logged."

"You need me to make some fingerprints at a crime scene disappear?"

Fingerprints at a-

Rick laughed and watched the subway platforms hurtle by as the train didn't even slow. "Not this time. Thanks though. I'm actually - it wasn't a ghost thing."

"Oh?" Eastman's voice held casual nothing - which meant he wasn't happy. "Richard, you know you can't go vigilante and-"

"No, no, it wasn't a work thing at all," he hurried on. "I met a girl. A woman. I want to - I need to check her out."

"A woman. Huh."

"Shut up. You have one. Why can't I?"

"Sure, sure. Of course. Let me see what I can set up for you. Log in with terminal D and access the server under the wayfarer network."

"Thanks, Eastman."

"Here to help."

The thing was, Eastman always meant what he said.

\-----

It wasn't hard to pull Officer Beckett's duty roster from the main server at NYPD's One Police Plaza. It was even easier to track her squad car's GPS locator and fine-tune her exact cross street.

He'd done his homework, researched her mother's case, found two charges of disorderly conduct that had been dismissed from her father's expunged record, and read the lead detective's notes on the murder from '99. Detective Raglan had precious little to say that was either original or inspiring, and no wonder Beckett wanted a crack at it.

He also read her personnel file. She'd been cited twice for unauthorized access to the Records room - searching for the case file, no doubt. Both of those times corresponded pretty directly to her father's arrests for public intoxication. She'd gotten desperate and it had made her sloppy, but otherwise her superior officers' reports were glowing.

Not only had she outshone everyone on patrol in the last six months as an officer in training, but her Academy scores were insane. She had bested them all. Top of her class in academics, ballistics, computer technology, and even physical fitness. She had gone through the final exam - an obstacle course much like the FBI one - with a score so high she now held a national record. She had her name on every damn trophy in the school.

She was phenomenal. He'd already known that, but it was doing something to his insides to hear and read other people who knew it too.

He was dialed into the police scanner and he'd been following her route for the last few hours, so he knew she was on a kind of break with her training officer, the car parked at a grocery store within the 12th's jurisdiction. He walked there slowly, checking his phone to be sure she hadn't tried to call him, and then he read the alerts from the query function Eastman had built him. The function was basically a complex search query that pinged the CIA database every thirty seconds and sent the data back at him in an email.

He was keeping tabs on her, just a little.

No movement. He was expecting her to be at the park across the street from the little corner grocer's, but when he got there, she wasn't. He scanned the street and found the cop car, empty.

Maybe she was eating lunch already. The grocer probably offered pre-made sandwiches at an exorbitant rate but had discounts for the cops working this beat. Rick hustled a little now, afraid he might miss her, afraid she'd already eaten her fill and wouldn't want his.

He'd brought her lunch, of course.

Rick clutched the white paper sack against his hip and quickly opened the grocer's door, stepped inside with a blast of cold air. It had gotten chillier as the day went on, and he wondered if that light jacket she'd picked out this morning would be enough.

Oh, well, there she was, standing just before the front counter. She must have had a heavier NYPD coat in her locker.

Oh. She did not look-

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she hissed, grabbing him by the elbow and yanking him down the narrow aisle between diapers and canned beans. Just past her shoulder, he saw the rugged visage of her training officer - Royce, he remembered - and the man had a close eye on her.

Good.

Wait. Just how close?

"Richard," she growled. "You need to leave."

"Did you already eat?" he asked, but he could see for himself. Crumbs caught in the collar of her coat, and he reached out to brush them away. "Was it light, maybe? Because I brought you potato cakes from that deli."

Her jaw dropped.

He used the moment to skim his fingers from the collar of her coat to her neck, brushing his thumb along the beautiful hard line of her jaw. "Damn, you're hotter than I remembered," he murmured. Even in all the gear, the thick bulky uniform with its bulletproof vest. “Not that I could really forget.”

She knocked his hand away and stepped back. "No. You cannot follow me around, Richard."

"Beckett?"

Rick glanced to the end of the aisle and saw the training officer coming for them. "Hey, no trouble," he said quickly. But he didn't move away from her, wouldn't leave here without something from her.

"Beckett, he making trouble?"

"No," Rick answered.

"Yes," Beckett snarled. "But I can handle it, Mike. You said no, remember? So butt out."

"He said no?" Richard grunted. "You're a fucking idiot. You told her no?" He glanced back to Kate, reached out to take her by the arm.

She did a quick self-defense maneuver to put him off. But Richard saw it coming, and old habits, long training, and reflex kicked in hard. He blocked her twist and had her feet swept out from under her and her body pressed against his with her arm behind her back - before he even knew he’d been moving.

Royce was immediately on them, a bellow of male rage.

“Shit.” Rick let go, put some distance between them for Royce’s sake. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Kate. Instinct when you moved. I know that’s not a good excuse, I’m sorry."

“You fucking bastard,” Royce hissed.

But she was already on her feet. She neatly stepped between him and Royce, elbowed Mike back with a brutal jab even as Royce tried to get around her. "Step off, Royce."

Mike glowered at both of them but Rick kept his distance, shifted back even when Kate moved forward, and that seemed to be enough for Royce. He headed to the end of the aisle and pointed upwards to a rounded security mirror. I'm watching you.

"Sorry, Kate," Rick started. "The potato cakes are probably still good, if a little crushed." The bag was on the floor at her feet but he didn't move closer to get them.

He'd never done that before, reacted like that when he wasn't truly in need of it. His instincts were finely honed and well-crafted, but they took over only when he was in danger.

He hadn't been in danger; he didn't know why he'd roughly pulled her body against his, torqued her arm to the point of pain. Mike Royce wasn’t even close to a threat; he’d just been edgy all morning thinking about her and he’d overreacted.

She was flexing her fingers now - must be tingling - but she bent down and picked up the bag carefully. "You should take these and go."

She held the bag out to him. Her eyes were hard and unforgiving. Richard swallowed and bobbed his head. He leaned in enough to grasp the white bag, grease stains on the bottom. "Yeah. I should." He stared at the bag and then held them out lamely. "But they're for you."

"Rick."

He nodded, tucked in the bag against his chest. "Okay." He didn't know what to say now. He'd gone off like a bomb in her face when Mike Royce had only been doing some posturing, and Richard didn't know why, what had happened. He had already messed up, pretty badly, attracted way too much attention.

This had been a bad idea.

He should call his father and - and - something. Black would know what was up. He'd always warned him not to get too involved, not to get invested, and it had gone wrong in Ireland with Colleen exactly as his father had always said.

"You should leave."

"Right." He took a step towards the door but she was blocking the aisle; he hesitated and she hesitated, and then she finally stepped to one side.

He walked for the door, saw Royce glaring at him from the cashier's check-out counter.

"Rick."

He turned at her voice, something tightening in his chest.

"Buy a coat. It's freezing."

He didn't know what that meant.

She was offering nothing with her eyes, nothing in her face that suggested openness or invitation.

So he turned back to the door and he walked out.

\-----

Richard threw away the potato cakes in a trash can in the park across the street, hunched his shoulders against the wind. It was cold, actually, though it didn't ever seem to penetrate his thick skin.

He shouldn't have forced it. He wanted her and he'd gone all out to get her, and he'd tried to make something out of what wasn't there. Executing that Krav Maga maneuver in the grocery's had been his body's attempt to give him a wake up call - this isn't your land, these aren't your people.

Gotta remember that. Trained into him since five years of age - not his people, not for him.

He had Ireland in five days' time and he'd live the mission, just as he always did. He’d joined up after 9/11 despite his father’s wishes, but he’d felt so worthless as an agent doing shit runs and minor operations. His father had yanked him back, he was officially no longer an Military Intelligence agent, but a full-fledged covert field operator with the CIA.

Ireland. It was his father’s way of giving him a second chance, a do-over. He needed this mission to go exactly right, or he wouldn’t be getting the choice overseas assignments. He’d get shipped back to three months jobs with minor targets and incomprehensible objectives all over again.

Live the mission.

Eastman was lucky because he'd found a girl and she'd told him she hadn't wanted to know his secrets and they were probably going to get married, but that wasn't Richard's life.

He didn't want that; he had never wanted that. A girl at home he lied to just as much as he lied to everyone else? No, no point to it. He had a job to do and he did it best. Period. Richard did it best. He took pride in being the go-to guy for anything difficult, anything sensitive. He got the fucking job done.

He'd pretty much screwed this job, picking up lunch for Kate, but she'd been right. He was putting stuff on it that wasn't appropriate. She’d been a really great fuck. He'd wanted to do it again and again, of course he had, but it would probably lose its hold on him, grow stale after five days. Better to leave it as it was, this perfect memory, endless fodder for his imagination.

Might also help him keep his dick in his pants when he got to Ireland. No more Colleens. He didn't need that shit again. He'd think about Kate and he'd keep the mission on track and it would be ideal.

Richard headed back for the red line, at the last second remembering to switch trains and not lead a path directly back to the CIA safe house. The tips of his fingers were greasy from the bag and that bothered him, but he rubbed them against his cargo pants to get rid of the sensation.

His fellow travelers were eyeing him, he realized. He took a quick glance down at himself but there was no blood, no wounds, nothing he could see.

Oh, shit. A coat.

That's what she'd meant.

He needed to buy a fucking coat. He stood out like a sore thumb.

\-----

Richard perused the selection of men’s coats but his mind was on his surroundings. There’d been a guy at the subway platform that had caught his attention, and now another here inside Macy’s. If they had a team on him, then it was a four-man team, because he hadn’t seen that first guy from the park ever again.

Which meant they probably didn’t have a team on him.

Four guys? No.

He didn’t merit a four-man team.

Not yet anyway.

Richard shifted on the balls of his feet, the red flag for I’m gonna run, but the guy he’d spotted didn’t even flinch.

All right. Not a foreign operative.

He turned back to the coats. He needed something light enough that it wouldn’t constrict his movements, but nothing that looked like he wasn’t blending in. These New Yorkers all were wearing heavy peacoats in black with matte buttons, but the peacoat wouldn’t allow him freedom to draw a weapon and it would overheat him quickly.

He rubbed his fingers over an army-style lightweight coat, dark grey-green, no buttons. Pockets were flaps like his cargo pants, but he wondered if that would make him appear too military. It appealed to him, so probably the answer was yes.

Richard gave it up and moved on, hoping something would catch his eye. He’d first gone into a boutique store on Fifth, not knowing what he would be in for, but he’d hurried back out when he realized they catered to the exclusive. Not that Richard didn’t have discerning taste - he did - but he didn’t need the spotlight right now.

He was interested though. He liked to look good, but more than that, he needed the acumen for the mission. Some identities required an upper-class, cream of the crop attire, and he’d done his homework on that front.

So Richard should buy a pair of jeans and then he could get that military-style coat with the pockets. A pair of new boots too, because it always bothered him to lose track of his shoes overnight. Not that he expected Beckett to have slipped a tracking device into the sole of his boot while he slept (he hadn’t really slept), but the gap in time still bothered him.

They’d been out of sight in the living room. What if someone had entered and-

Right. New clothes. Best idea he’d had yet.

When Richard was outfitted in something more appropriate to the style of New York natives, and also more appropriate to the suddenly chilled temperatures, he stepped out of Macy’s and onto the sidewalk, slipped into the crowd without a problem.

Dark wash jeans that had cost nearly two hundred dollars, the coat which was half that price, the black sweater that assured his face would blend into the crowd - he’d done good. Mission complete. Thank you, Beckett, for the tip.

He took the first subway that came into the station and rode around for hours, diving into the city’s rhythms and finding its beating hearts. Chinatown, Little Italy, Soho, Greenwich Village, Downtown.

Finally back in Harlem, so late in the afternoon that the sky held that grey-pink glow of neon, he walked the cut-through in the park towards his building, felt the keys in his pocket. His phone had been silent all afternoon because he’d turned off the text alerts for the query, but under the dark shadows of the trees, he couldn’t resist taking a look.

The last text he’d received had her back at the 12th Precinct, the car stationary and parked right out front. Had she caught a perp and brought him back for processing?

Her shift wasn’t up for another few hours, Bravo shift, and he wondered if-

No.

Here was his building now. The security lamps were weak, and he went in the back door and inside to the freight elevator. He checked the camera in the lift and saw it was still disconnected - he’d done that nearly three years ago when he’d first come - and he rode up in silence.

Almost at peace. His head was filled with a successful mission and his heart was - nothing. Just like it was supposed to be. Disengaged.

He pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door, opened it slowly at first, letting it swing on its hinges. Then he popped it back hard with both hands, ready to fight.

No one was behind the door. He closed it, locked it, smooth and methodical.

He moved quickly for the kitchen cabinet next to the stove, withdrew his back-up piece and pressed it against his side. He cleared the rooms in an oft-practiced routine, and then he headed back into his living room.

No television, but the computer was here on the pasteboard desk. He started it up once more and sank into the lone armchair that he’d dragged up. He laid the weapon on the desktop and waited for the computer to boot up.

His apartment was quiet.

He leaned back and the chair creaked with old springs, the late afternoon light blocked by the blackout curtains on the windows. The air had the smell of winter to it and he realized he hadn’t turned the heater on in his haste to do research on Kate.

Kate.

He squeezed his hands over the arms of the chair to keep from reaching for his phone.

The computer screen turned grey with the boot-up process, and he studied it like his life depended on it.

It flickered to light blue, the happy computer icon in the middle, and stayed light blue for a long time.

Finally the screen blacked out and reloaded as the dark blue desktop, the blocky icons. He called up the parallel operating system and input his handle and his password, and then he was inside the CIA databases as a ghost.

He opened his mission brief and started tagging keywords, ignoring the note from his father which said Knew you couldn’t resist for long. I’ve opened the additional files to your security clearance. Happy hunting.

He’d do it in his own time.

For now, he dug into the Ireland cover identity, taking that new man to heart, dwelling in his story.

Ireland was where he was going, where he belonged. Ireland was his home.

But his fingers were still greasy from the stained bag.

\-----

It was dark and one in the morning and the idea of being a full twenty-four hours beyond Kate Beckett was too much.

He didn’t think he could do it.

It surprised him. He hadn’t expected to still want her so much. Well, yes, of course - he was a red-blooded male and she was seriously hot and extraordinary in bed - but the wanting her. Just - a part of her.

He’d given in hours ago and started checking his phone again, keeping updated on her whereabouts, but since the squad car was parked at the station, he had no good way to ascertain her location.

He was supposed to be reading up on Michael Leary, his new cover, but instead he found himself cracking open the satellite link once more, putting in her cell phone number. It would ping off cell towers and he could get a narrowed-down range to search, allow him a general idea of where she was. And he knew enough about her now to know where she might be - precinct, bar, chinese takeout, apartment.

He couldn’t believe she was still at the precinct where the squad car was parked, but he hadn’t any other information.

After too-long a wait - the network was slow here - he finally got the map to resolve and he checked the cross streets.

Looked like she was home.

He sat back in the armchair, not at all relieved for some inexplicable reason, and he realized his phone was in his hand.

Like he was waiting on her call.

She was home. Why hadn’t she called?

Shit.

She wouldn’t be calling, idiot. She had told him as much.

He was - this was bad. She was under his skin. He hadn’t known, consciously, that he’d been hoping for her to call when she got off work, but he had. That had been his thought all day long while he rode the subway and bought new clothes. Fuck, he’d been killing time until her, and he’d been dressing for her, and no, no, she didn’t want him.

(Or she wanted him so much it scared her.)

Fuck, that was a tempting thought. But that was the path of madness and stalker behavior, and he couldn’t indulge.

But maybe they could talk. He should apologize for nearly breaking her arm when she’d moved to shove him, and he should apologize for showing up at her job like that. What if she’d come up to him in the middle of a contact with an asset? He’d want her out of there too.

He could buy her flowers, and he could show up at the apartment and knock and maybe just leave them at the door with a card. That wasn’t pushy or aggressive at all; that was just considerate and sincerely humble, and he could leave the ball in her court. He’d called himself from her phone, so it would be in her call log and she could call him if she was inclined to forgive.

Now that he had a plan, he was itching to go. It was one in the morning and he should probably wait for daybreak, but it wasn’t like he wanted to have an actual conversation with her right now. He’d just leave the flowers at her door like the newspaper and then he’d wait for her to call.

Were there flower shops open at one?

\-----

Flower shops were not - actually - open at one in the morning. Apparently there wasn’t a pressing need to apologize to a woman in the middle of the night, though how that was at all true, he had no idea. Maybe the kind of men who needed to apologize at one in the morning weren’t the kind of men who did so with flowers.

He checked his phone for an alert, but there’d been no more movement on her location. Eastman was watching it for him and had promised to let him know. The squad car had changed locations, but was still parked near the 12th, and he didn’t know what that meant, only that Beckett’s cell phone was inside her apartment.

As he waited for LePugh to open their doors - chosen only because they did so the earliest, at five - Richard contemplated the path that had gotten him here, skulking the shadows for such a mundane mission.

There was no bomb threat, no vital counter-intelligence report in the wind. It was just a woman he’d slept with who had told him no and now he was hung up on her.

But why shouldn’t they get together this week while he was here? She had said as much, if he could be cool. That fact remained untouchable, even if his previous excursions were off the mark and weak showings. Walking up to her in the grocer’s had been a pretty big mistake, but he was thinking things through a little more clearly.

He’d apologize and he’d keep their interactions firmly at her pace; he wouldn’t venture past her clearly defined lines. Kate Beckett had borders and he had to respect them.

But the underlying premise was sound: he had a week and they’d had fun, so they should spend that week together. Hell, she had said so herself.

He was going to have to work on the wording - she would object to together - but basically, in essence, that was what it boiled down to.

The sign lit up in pink neon open and Richard started across the street, layered now in his dark, military style coat, his jeans, and this time a black plaid shirt pulled on over the thin sweater, leaving it all untucked despite his military training.

He could draw his gun easily, and he’d brought it with him this morning out of habit.

At the bar yesterday, he’d been drinking and so he’d left it at the apartment. But today he wouldn’t be, and it was more secure on his person than the CIA’s place.

When he opened the door to LePugh’s, the shop owner was at the back, near a door that led to a walk-in cooler, but she came up to greet him. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly.

He smiled, easy, a little pained. “I need flowers for my wife,” he said, the lie rolling right off his tongue without his thinking about it. “I’m trying to apologize.”

She gave him a little chuckle and nodded. “I understand. Explains why you’re so very early.”

Good, that had been the right move. “Exactly. I was thinking breakfast in bed too, so I need something sedate. You know? She’s not really the kind of woman who enjoys those overwrought displays.”

The owner gave him a studied look, shook her head. “Actually, you’d be surprised. But let’s go high-end, not the ordinary stuff, and get one or two excellent blooms - rather than a bouquet. How’s that sound?”

“Okay, I’m in your hands,” he agreed.

The owner led him to the other side of the store, away from the roses, and towards more exotic looking flowers. He had some idea of names - this was information he used from time to time as a spy - but there were a few that looked rare.

One stem held a cascade of brilliant purple flowers, their deep cups patterned with freckles of white trailing to the stamen, and Rick gravitated towards it. “This one,” he said.

The owner slid back the casing and pulled it from the bucket, let him look. “This is a purple floxglove.” She wouldn’t allow him to take it from her, instead putting it back. “I don’t think it says what you’re looking to say - it’s poisonous.”

He stood rooted to the spot, watching the carefully beautiful, elegant flower. “No, I think it’s - distinct. And maybe it is poisonous, but only if you eat it, right?”

“No pets? No small children?”

“No,” he said. “That’s what I want.”

“Children?”

He flushed. “The foxglove. Can you make it - like is there a ribbon or something?”

She studied him again and he knew he was doing this weird, that he wasn’t normal, but the flowers were singular and Beckett was singular and he just wanted to apologize, damn it.

“All right,” the woman said finally. “I’ll present it for you.”

\-----

In one hand he had a tray of coffees and a bag of bagels and cream cheese, and in the other he carried the one, long stem of foxglove - the woman had pronounced it a bellicose knot - the bell-shaped flowers snugly resting one after another in a hanging bundle of purple.

He liked these flowers a lot actually. He could see her liking them too, intrigued despite herself. He entered her apartment lobby - it was a nonsecure building, which didn’t please him - and he headed up the stairs, felt his legs working powerfully as he took the steps two at a time.

He found her hallway almost remarkable in its simplicity and drab effect. After spending all day - yesterday now - waiting for this moment again, now that it was here, things were both familiar and unreal at the same time. There was the crack in the wall that spoke of a shifting foundation, there was the sconce with the missing light bulb, here was her door.

Her door.

It had been a full twenty-fours since he had last seen her.

Somehow just leaving a bouquet with a card that said I’m sorry had turned into knocking and having breakfast. He hadn’t meant to do that, but it had popped out of his mouth at the flower shop and then he’d gone to that deli place she liked and bought the bagels and now he was standing in front of her door.

Asking for things.

He swallowed down a sudden urge to run.

Strange. This was all so... not like him. What had she done to him? Maybe he should leave; maybe this was an entirely bad idea.

But yesterday, riding the subway as the light faded and the temperature dropped even more, sending the city into an early winter, he’d been trying not to think about her. The whole time, he’d caught himself remembering the way her hair spilled in a curtain around them, those noises she made when she was so very close, the sleek limbs in bed with him as she slept.

He wanted to delve into those things, wanted to dwell in them, exist there for a few more days, shore himself up with her. Ireland would be cold and dark and filled with violent men who drank for freedom and bitter women who dragged their husbands’ sorry asses home again, and he wanted to close his eyes and recall her face in every exquisite, soft, young detail.

He knocked on her door.

His heart kicked up at a noise from inside but no one came, no accompanying lock being turned or knob twisting. He backed up a step to be sure she could see him through the peephole and he waited with the flowers against his chest and the bag of bagels filling the hallway with delicious smells.

He had on his new coat. She’d remember that and she’d maybe smile, that closed-lip smile where she kept the amusement at bay. But maybe he’d even get to see that smile when she opened the door because she wouldn’t even know she was still smiling.

Now he was smiling. He ached to touch her lips with his, feel her tongue stroking inside his mouth. She had amazing hands, strong fingers that felt both dainty and demanding when she wrapped them around his cock.

Huh. Still nothing.

He put down the bagels and coffee so he could slide his phone out of his pocket. He checked to be sure but her cellular tower said she was here. He knocked again, a little louder, and he pressed his ear to the door.

Was that a moan?

He knew her moans, the good ones, the sexually charged ones, the sexually frustrated ones, but that was not one of them.

That was pain.

Richard gripped the doorknob and wriggled it, cursing himself for not stealing the spare key he’d found in her kitchen drawer last night. He leaned over and inspected the lock, the knob, trying to envision its weak points.

Probably if he gave it a hard kick at the door itself, the lock would clip and splinter the frame; it might take two kicks to get it clear.

“Beckett!” he called through the door, just to be sure.

Silence. Her phone was here but that didn’t mean she was, and yet the squad car was at the 12th.

No, her phone would be on her - because of her father. She’d never let that phone out of her sight.

She was here. She just... couldn’t answer the door?

“Beckett!” he yelled again.

Was that a moan? It was something, and he’d been so damn sloppy that day with her, barely even looking and someone could have followed him and come up here and now she was exposed.

He’d made her a target.

Richard drew his gun and checked the safety, listened again at her door. He had dropped the flowers to her hall floor, he noted vaguely; one of the little bowl-shaped flowers had been beheaded from the stem.

He didn’t hear a damn thing. He just didn’t know - what he might have done, what the consequences would be.

Richard took a step back and then he lifted his leg and brought his heel down hard on the door knob. He felt it give only slightly, so he did it again, kicking out with the force of his training and finally splintering the door.

Richard barreled his way inside, storming through to her living room with his weapon raised and ready, scanning the apartment for her.

And found Kate Beckett passed out halfway on the couch, still in her uniform.

\-----

After he’d ascertained that she wasn’t wounded, Rick went back to the hall and picked up the flowers and the coffee and bagels, came inside once more. He placed the plastic-wrapped flowers and their breakfast on the kitchen counter, and then he sank down before the couch. He leaned over Kate’s sprawled form, reached out to brush the hair from her eyes.

She was burning up.

“Kate,” he murmured quietly.

She didn’t stir; she hadn’t even risen when he’d kicked in the door, so she must feel pretty badly. He’d had medic training to treat his guys in an emergency in the field, so he knew something beyond basic first aid.

“Kate?” he said, a little louder this time. She had both feet on the floor like she’d been sitting here trying to get up the energy to take her shoes off, but she hadn’t even managed that.

Rick sank down to the floor and began untying the laces of her boots, easing the tightly wound strings and loosening the tongue to pull them off. She was truly out; he got the second shoe off and then her socks as well, her feet damp with sweat.

She had a fever, he thought, and the beginnings of a cold, no doubt. He’d given her a sleepless night and then she’d gone to work in freezing temperatures and no wonder.

“Kate,” he murmured, rubbing his hands slowly up the back of her calves. She didn’t even twitch, and so he got to his knees and found her belt, unlaced it from her waist. He pressed his cheek to her inside thigh, just a moment, and then he maneuvered her pants off.

She stirred and her fingers jerked, but her eyes didn’t open. Rick hooked his arm behind her knees and stood, his other arm tensing at her neck as he lifted her. She gave a weird noise in her throat that might have been a congested whimper, and he carried her back to her bedroom.

Rick angled her body into the bed, laid her on one side of the mattress. She grunted something as her head hit the pillow and her eyes flickered open, but she didn’t seem to be seeing him.

“Kate?” he said softly.

Those dark, beautiful eyes stared at him, but without awareness. Her lids slipped closed again, so he settled at her hip, watching her a moment. He touched the sharp rise of her waist and saw the pale pink of her underwear, disconcertingly pretty.

Her skin was on fire. He skimmed his fingers up her abs and under the black turtleneck, smoothed his thumb along her belly button. She let out a breath that seemed to stutter in her lungs, getting caught, and her lashed lifted.

“Rick?” she rasped, confusion slipping out in a knot.

“Yeah, love.” He slid one hand behind her neck and brought her slowly upright, cupping the side of her face. “Let me get this off you, sweetheart. You’ll feel more comfortable.”

She gave a pitiful whimper and her head rolled to his shoulder. He tugged the shirt up and maneuvered one of her arms out of the sleeve. She started to struggle with him, a sharp intake of air as she seemed to become more alert.

“What are you - what are you doing here?” she croaked. If he wasn’t completely off base, she sounded relieved.

“I think you have a fever.” He ignored the question and the way she rubbed her eyes into his shoulder, focused on getting her out of the uniform.

Not quite how he imagined doing it, but it worked for him - in a different way. Forget the arousal, there was something far more profound about her trusting in him to undress her.

He lifted the shirt over her head and her hair fell out of the bun, limp and dark.

“I don’t have a fever,” she murmured. “No, I’m okay.” She struggled again, her arms knocking against his ribs. “I can... I’m...”

“You’re not okay; you’re sick.” He lowered her to the mattress and saw her chest expand and contract like collapsing. She was unnaturally disjointed, her words mumbled. “Hey, Kate? Kate. Did you take anything? Tylenol or cold medicine?”

Her head turned slowly and her arm flopped out, fingers unfurling towards the nightstand. “You came back?” she rasped.

He laughed softly. “Yeah, love. I brought you flowers. And bagels. But how about I bring you some cold medicine.”

She hummed something and suddenly chills raced across her body, made her curl up around his knee. Rick hurriedly dragged the messy covers out from under her and shook them out. But he was stunned immobile when he caught a whiff of them. Sex in her sheets. She’d probably left the bed unmade so she could wash them.

Instead of covering her up, he dragged the sheet off and pulled just the blanket over her, reached down to find her pillow.

“Why are you here?” she whispered. Her fingers came to his chin and dappled across his scruff, her eyes out of focus and sliding closed. “I was mean to you.”

He closed his hand around her fingers and kissed them softly, tucked her arm under the blanket. “Sleep. I’ll wake you for cold medicine.”

Rick gathered the dirty top sheet and her uniform, and he headed out of her room.

\-----

He braced the front door with a chair - he’d fix it when he’d gotten her fixed first - and then he moved into the kitchen to find water.

For the flowers, and for Kate as well.

He put the bagels in the fridge, and he filled a glass with cool tap water for the flowers. He placed the foxglove on top of her little shelf along the backsplash, and then he took down another glass for Kate. When he managed a recon of the kitchen, he spotted tylenol cold and sinus pills as well as vitamins and spices in a tiny cabinet just beside the pots and pans. It looked like an afterthought, added on to make efficient use of the space, but she’d stacked the bottles precisely.

He fished out the pills and rooted around in the back for cough syrup that might put her to sleep. He found cough drops instead and he took those, gathered the glass of water, and headed back for her bedroom.

She’d curled in the corner of the mattress, her shoulder length hair framing her pale face. Rick set everything down on the bedside table, stroked that hair back from her ear and neck, felt for her pulse.

Steady, but the heat built up under his palm.

“Kate,” he nudged. He couldn’t help leaning in and touching his lips to her forehead to absorb that heat, feel her presence so strongly even feverish. “Kate. I need you to sit up and take this medicine.”

Her breath rushed out along the back of his hand and her fingers curled around his wrist. “I’m okay,” she mumbled.

“No, love. You’re sick. You need to take a couple pills.”

“Already did,” she sighed.

“How long ago?” He stroked the back of his other hand down her temple, the dampness of sweat clinging to his skin. “Kate. How long ago?”

“Don’t know.”

“When you got home from work?”

“Yeah, course. Sent me home.”

“Sent you home?” he questioned, finger-combing through her hair and letting some air get to her neck. She shivered and he tugged the comforter up a little higher. “Kate, sweetheart, when did they send you home?”

“When I fainted,” she mumbled.

“When you-” Rick choked off the rest of that, strangling his furious indignation. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “And when was that, Kate? What time, love?”

“Don’t know,” she whined, but this time her teeth were chattering and she drew into a tight little ball.

Rick gave up on keeping away from her, those borders and boundaries he’d been trying to remind himself about, and he slipped off his shoes and sat at the headboard. She was trembling with chills, and he drew her body up into his lap, leaned her against his shoulder as he reached for the water.

“Drink this.”

He touched the glass to her lips and she parted, her lashes so dark against the gorgeous, painful slope of her cheekbones. But she shook her head and mumbled something, started to struggle against him.

“Water, sweetheart. It’s just water.”

He coaxed her back to the glass with the gentle pressure of his palm and she drank the water slowly at first, and then greedily, more and more. He had to pull the glass away to keep her from choking on it.

“Hey, hang on. You’ve got cold medication here that you need to take. Then you can have the rest of the water.”

Kate stiffened; she was awake now.

More than awake, she was entirely aware. The water seemed to have pulled her abruptly to the here and now.

She rose away from his body and turned to see him, eyebrows knitted together fiercely. She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him, and he couldn’t help noticing how her breasts looked pressed together, constricted by her bra.

She swallowed and he saw the goose bumps rising across her arms, so he reached out and rubbed her biceps briskly, tried to ease her back to him.

She resisted, and he sighed, waited for it.

But it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “You brought me flowers.”

He smiled. “I did.”

“Why? No, that can’t be,” she said and then shook her head and rubbed her hand against her eyes. “I don’t... maybe I dreamed that.”

“No,” he grinned. “I brought you poisonous flowers. Foxglove. They have white freckles. I thought they were pretty.”

“You brought me poisonous flowers,” she repeated. Her mouth opened and then closed and then she looked around her room and her whole body seemed to let go. “I’m so tired.”

She collapsed back against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, nestling his chin to the top of her head. The relief welled inside him. “I know you are. And it’s my fault. I kept you up, barely let you sleep. Take some of this medicine for me and then we’ll get you tucked into bed and you can sleep it off.”

“You kept me up,” she murmured again. He found the medicine with one hand and guided the water to her mouth. But Kate took both from him, sitting up to swallow the pills. She knocked them back quickly, wincing and releasing the glass to his hand, and then she hunched over, her head going into her hands.

“Kate?”

“Ah.”

“You really with me now?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, love. You have a fever, chills. Probably body aches. How’s the breathing?”

“My chest hurts,” she admitted, shifting away from him now. She put her feet to the floor and a hand out to stay him. “No. Not you. I’m going to the bathroom.”

He stayed, watched her carefully as she moved slowly down the hall for the bathroom.

She was in there a long time. When she came back out, she flipped off lights as she did, bathroom, living room, hall, finally the bedroom. She got to the bed and seemed surprised to see him for a moment, like she’d imagined him.

Dreamed him.

He was prepared to be kicked out, he was ready for her to tell him to leave her apartment.

But instead she crawled into bed and carefully laid down on one side, her body hunched into a pained profile, still in nothing but her bra and panties.

Rick shrugged off his new jacket, his plaid shirt, the thin sweater, and finally the black t-shirt he’d been wearing underneath. He put the plaid shirt back on, buttoned it only barely, and then he held up his t-shirt, leaving the rest pooled at the foot of the bed.

Kate had turned her head slightly to look at him, as if startled by his disrobing. She saw the t-shirt but it didn’t seem to register.

“You’ll be more comfortable. Come on,” he insisted. He reached out and tugged her upright again. She shivered and took the t-shirt from him, slowly pulled it on over her head. Rick reached up under the shirt, fingertips skimming her ribs, and he unhooked her bra.

It hung there a moment, just between them, and then she rolled her shoulders and he saw the straps get caught in the sleeves of his shirt. She did some complicated thing and hooked her fingers in the strap and then the whole bra came off through her sleeve.

He whistled and she smiled, dropped the bra over the side of the bed.

This time when she curled up to sleep, she was facing him, one hand tucked under her cheek. The other came to his thigh and stroked along his jeans. “Shirt smells like you.”

And then her eyes closed and she was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Rick had found a stack of books on the floor beside her bed and after he’d fixed the doorframe with scrap wood he’d found in the super’s storage room, he picked out a book and started reading.

In bed with her, of course. He couldn’t not. She was burning with fever but she was plastered against his side anyway, her cheek smashed against his hip and her arm wrapped around his thigh. He read Kafka’s The Castle - the top of her stack - about a man named K who is alienated from his town by his perilous legal standing.

It should have been dry and boring, but it was actually darkly, broodingly terrifying. He was enjoying it, and not just because Kate was sleeping practically on top of him. It was a book about a man without a country, a man fighting to figure himself out, and Rick could entirely relate.

He stroked his fingers down her spine and then lifted his hand to turn the page, reading slowly to absorb the feel of her body laid against his leg and the heat of her fever sealing them together. He combed through her hair, arranging it around her shoulders and over her arm, then sweeping it all back again.

She slept deeply for hours and he enjoyed the book, found himself caught up in the frustration of all the bureaucracy K struggles against to gain citizenship to the town. The Castle mentioned in the title was a reference to the far-off seat of governance, the ruling palace, high in the mountains. It was interesting in terms of what it said about Kate and whatever relationship she had with the NYPD, what it could do for her as she strained against the bureaucracy surrounding her mother’s case.

After a while, he dropped it beside her bed again, sifted through the books still remaining. A collection of letters from Chekhov, a thin volume of poetry from someone he didn’t know, two mystery novels that looked untouched, and The Plague by Camus.

Such bleak literature she read. It made him - oddly hopeful. She wasn’t the girl reading Jan Karon’s Mitford books and Grisham’s Skipping Christmas. She read dense, unfinished, post-humous novels by Kafka. She picked up mystery novels and intended to get to them; she thumbed through letters of a Russian playwright.

She was incredible.

And incredibly hot, and sticking to his jeans. He wished he’d thought to take them off, but he hadn’t wanted her to think he was here for one thing only.

Except that he had wanted her to think that, just so he wouldn’t be not cool.

He was damned either way, really, but this way - this way made something shift into place inside his chest, like the world made sense for the first time.

Rick shifted down into the bed and eased her away from him, quickly shed his jeans and his plaid shirt as well, only his boxer briefs still on. He settled on his back and gathered her against his chest once more, stroking his hand through her hair, kissing her forehead when she struggled to the surface.

“Back to sleep, love,” he murmured softly. “Just getting comfortable.”

“I wish...” she mumbled. Her voice was pitched into his armpit, her heavy sigh made his skin tickle.

Rick combed the hair back from her cheek and cupped it at the back of her neck. “What do you wish, baby? What can I get you?”

She sighed again and her knee came up, her arm drawing around his waist. “Wish I hadn’t.”

“Hadn’t?”

“I saw you,” she mumbled. Her head lifted from his shoulder, her neck barely able to keep it steady. Her eyes were fathomless. “In the park. The bag. I wish...”

She dropped her cheek to his shoulder and closed her eyes, and whatever she had wished was washed away in her sigh. He stroked the back of her neck for a moment and then offered what he could.

“Whatever you saw, doesn’t matter now. I’m here. I got you, Kate.”

\-----

She started coughing sometime before noon, small rasps that got caught in her throat but made it impossible for her to stay horizontal. Rick finally hauled her up against his chest as he sat in the bed, gave her some support so she could sleep if she wanted to.

Kate resisted at first - somehow, he supposed, that was too much - but she hadn’t eaten all day and every coughing fit only made it worse, and she gave up. When she sank into his chest, her fingers curled at his belly button and her mouth opened, her skin flaming against him.

He pressed his hand to her shoulder and kissed her forehead, mentally calculated how much longer before he could give her tylenol cold pills again, ran logistics for how long it would take to leave her and pick up cough syrup from a pharmacy. He was reluctant to patron any store that was in her neighborhood, but he knew - logically - that was only paranoia talking.

He’d have to do it. He didn’t want to leave her for long, not like this, and he didn’t want her to think he wasn’t coming back.

Kate wrapped her arm around her mouth and coughed into the crook of her elbow, her whole body tensing and going rigid against him. He soothed the muscles along her back with his fingers, straightened her out of the hunch, and brought her to lie against his chest, only half reclining.

“See if you can sleep. You need the rest,” he murmured.

She was still steadfastly not talking to him, and he didn’t know whether that was a passive form of denial or if she just couldn’t, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t ignoring him, and that was something.

She was sick, and she didn’t feel good, and it was humiliating to have someone witness it; he knew that. He still wanted to help, to be here, and he couldn’t fathom life outside her apartment right now. So if she wanted to close her eyes and say nothing, but he still got to be here, then that’s what they’d do.

She started coughing again, this time turning her head into his neck so that her elbow dug a sharp point into his collarbone with the force of it. Her free hand fisted at his hip, clutching the waistband of his boxers like she needed something to hold on to. He kept her close, humming nonsense into her hair, and her body eased again, releasing its tension.

She would need more medicine in about forty-five minutes, according to his calculations. And if the coughing got worse, then those little pills weren’t going to cut it. She would need cough syrup to coat her throat and put her to sleep, keep her from straining or injuring her abdominal muscles.

He’d have to go.

He didn’t want to go.

He’d make it fast.

But for now, he stroked his fingers up and down her spine under the shirt, the close heat of her skin against his palm. She still alternated between shivering and being too hot, sometimes draped over him, sometimes on the far side of the bed with all the covers thrown off.

“Why are you here?” she croaked then. The words dragged another round of coughing out of her. It seemed to go on forever, and she whined at the end of it, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands in fists.

Rick covered her hands with his own, eased her fingers out of their death grip, kissed her knuckles. “I came back to apologize,” he answered easily. He let go of her hand and pushed his knuckles into the knots of tension at her neck, either side of her spine, and she let out a sighing breath.

“Apologize,” she echoed.

“Say I’m sorry for cornering you at work,” he murmured. His fingers got tangled in her hair and she winced, shoulders drawing up. Rick brushed a kiss against her cheek in apology for that too, and Kate went still.

“Why are you still here?” she said on a breath. He heard the congestion and felt the weak way she struggled to move, like she wanted to not need him but couldn’t quite get there.

“Oh, I still haven’t apologized,” he said easily. “You’ve been unconscious.”

She grunted, and he knew it was laughter, but she was trapping it, and then of course it turned into another round of coughing until tears squeezed out of her eyes. He ignored those tears because acknowledging them would be the kiss of death - he wasn’t stupid - but he rubbed her back through it and kept her from pushing away.

“Didn’t mean to be funny,” he said then.

She groaned and dropped her forehead to his shoulder, a suffocated noise coming out of her chest.

“Or that time either,” he said.

She twisted his nipple for that and he laughed, feeling better about having to leave her for cough medicine now that she seemed aware of him. Now that she had a little object permanence, she wouldn’t think he wasn’t coming back, or that it had all been a fever dream.

“Apology accepted,” she said imperiously, pushing off against his chest to sit upright. She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes and pulled her knees up to her chest. He watched as she kind of collapsed against her thighs, arms hooked around her legs.

She put her cheek to her knee though, and she watched him. He figured this was where he was supposed to offer information about himself, where he was supposed to explain, and he realized he actually wanted her to know.

“I found you passed out on your couch,” he started, trying to get it right. “And I didn’t want you to be alone.”

He closed his mouth and studied her as she watched him, and he didn’t know what else to say. He’d had ideas for how he could seduce his way into her good graces once more, but those usual smooth lines seemed false when it came to Beckett.

She was still resting over her drawn up knees, but he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her ankle, smoothed the skin around the bone. “You shouldn’t have to be alone. I don’t want to be alone either.”

She uncurled and came for him, draping her body over his now, her arms around his neck and her face turned into his chest. He wrapped her up, drew the covers over them, even his legs hooking around hers. Too much, he knew it was too much, but he was so relieved.

“I wish you hadn’t thrown them away,” she whispered.

And then she started coughing again, pitiful and breathless, shaking with it, and he didn’t care that she seemed to need to bury it against his skin, he took it. She dragged his hand to her chest and pressed his knuckles into her sternum, bowing over him as she coughed. He didn’t know what that did to help, but she kept him there as if the force of his hand could alleviate the constricted pinch of her lungs.

He used his free hand to rub her back and he pressed his lips to the top of her head, riding it out with her. When she seemed to be through it, breathing hard against him, their fingers were still laced and sweaty tucked into her chest.

“I brought bagels instead this time,” he murmured. “And flowers. That’s better than potato cakes, right?”

“Oh God,” she gasped, a cough rumbling through a kind of laugh. “You’re going to break me.”

\-----

Rick came back into the room with a fresh glass of water and the cough medicine he’d bought at the drug store. He’d only been gone for twenty minutes at the most, but she was sitting up against the headboard with her chin tilted up and her eyes closed.

She looked like she was exhausted.

“Kate?”

Her head came down and her eyes opened on something dark and regretful. On him. She closed her eyes again and curled on her side, sinking into the mattress, her back to him.

Had she been afraid he wouldn’t come back?

Had she been afraid he would?

He set the water on the bedside table, the bag from the drug store next to it. The crinkle of the bag sounded loud in her bedroom and he sat down at her hip, placed his hand to the curve of her body in comfort, familiarity.

She was still hot, but he thought low-grade fever this time. After a moment she turned in the bed and rolled towards him, and her hand came to hook around his forearm, closing the circuit on their connection.

He felt lit up inside.

“Can you talk?” he murmured.

She shook her head, eyes overbright and tired.

“Makes you cough,” he said.

She nodded and her body inched closer. He rubbed her hip with two fingers and studied her shadowed face.

“I’ve got the cough medicine. You want to sit up and take it?”

She didn’t move, but her eyes opened and traced his face. Rick released her and skimmed his fingers along her arm as he moved, hating to let go of her, but needing to grab the cough medicine. He felt her struggling to sit up and he broke the seal on the syrup, cracked the top off with a twist of his wrist.

She was leaning against his shoulder blade now, her breaths slow and congested, her skin heated. He could feel her lips, chapped and heavy, as she brushed a kiss to his back.

He almost dropped the cough medicine.

She hadn’t - he’d been all over her, just trying to care for her, and he’d kissed her because he didn’t know how else to show her he was here and could help, and it was just kind of a natural thing, he hadn’t meant anything by it - not like that - and now she’d kissed his shoulder.

She didn’t mean anything like that either, of course, but he was completely floored by what all it could mean.

His hands shook for a second, but he got control of it and finished pouring the cough syrup into the cup, handed it to her. She knocked it back, wincing, coughing when it hit her, and she gave him the medicine cup.

Rick left everything on her bedside table and he turned to ease her back to the mattress. “See if you can sleep. I’m going to rinse this out so you can use it again.”

She settled down and released him, and he realized that for the last few hours she’d been holding his hand or clutching his plaid shirt or hooking an arm around one of his limbs. She’d stopped fighting it so hard. He leaned in and let his cheek scrape hers as he bent down for a kiss, brushing his lips back to her ear.

A caught breath and the quick touch of her fingers against his neck was his only warning - and still he was surprised when it happened. She was kissing him back, her mouth to his, lips closed and soft, her hand cupping his jaw. He stayed, breathless, until her head dropped back to the pillow.

When he sat up, her eyes were closed, but not in that forced way of I don’t want to have to look at what I’ve done, only in rest, ease, the way of I trust you.

He caressed the side of her face and stood up to take care of the cough syrup.

He should probably figure out lunch. She needed sustenance.

\-----

He used Web Crawler on her home computer to look up the best food for a cold, thinking something homeopathic or herbal might help, but he discovered that there was - apparently - already a cure.

Chicken soup.

Weird. He searched for a few different recipes, wanted to see if it was something he could do, and was dismayed to find that it required boiling chicken and letting it 'drop off the bones', whatever that meant. And he highly doubted that Beckett had a chicken in her freezer which he might be able to boil.

But what did she have?

Rick opened it up and pulled out the contents of her freezer one by one, chucking it in the trash if it was out of date or expired. Almost everything. He did find some frozen chicken breasts - boneless - in a thick bag from the market down the street, and he wondered if that might work.

What else would he need? According to the website, vegetables and chicken broth, but wouldn't the water he boiled the chicken in become that so-named broth? This was looking more and more complicated, but everything online said chicken soup was good for the soul and that it would open up her sinuses and all kinds of other benefits.

Rick dutifully filled a pot with water and set it out to boil, released a couple of the frozen chicken breasts into its depths. The boneless part didn’t seem promising, but her pantry held a couple cans of vegetables, one of green beans and one of mixed veggies, and he thought that might work.

Now for noodles. The site said to boil pasta in water, but since he was boiling the chicken, shouldn't he just do it all at the same time? He was anxious to get back to her, prop her up if she needed it. She hadn't been able to stop coughing earlier and she'd fall asleep on his chest only to wake up coughing again.

But chicken soup was a cure-all, and he was a damn trained counterintelligence operative. He could do this.

While everything boiled together - he'd found spaghetti noodles, and that was weird but he was adapting because he didn't even know what egg noodles were - Rick headed back for the bedroom to check on her. She was lying down cross-wise over the mattress with her upper torso propped up on all the blankets and pillows, like a lumpy hill. She wasn't shivering, but she'd left no covers at all, and her mouth was open, hair falling across her face like a curtain.

Rick stepped inside and turned off the bedside lamp, letting the afternoon’s amber light claim the room. He headed to the bathroom off the hallway and ransacked her linen closet for a clean sheet, found another pillow as well. He pulled a pillow case from a fresh stack of laundry and covered the pillow, leaned in to smell it.

Yeah, he liked that. Smelled like a home. He wondered if her mother had used the same detergent and she used it now too, bringing back some of what had been taken from her, or if she - like himself - couldn't even remember what a mother was supposed to smell like.

He also found more cold medicine products on the bottom shelf, along with things he'd call health and beauty aids - travel-sized toothpaste, extra bottles of shampoo and conditioner, lotions and creams, and some Vicks. He'd seen it before, remembered a vague commercial about putting it under your nose.

He reached out and plucked it from the shelf, opened the mint green lid. The overwhelming camphor assaulted his nostrils and burned through his head and suddenly a new memory welled up - huddled in his mother's dressing room, a blanket thrown over the radiator and his body pressed against that, greedy for heat, while his mother was in a play.

In thirty-two years, he had never remembered his mother - until now, he hadn't known there was anything to remember. He’d had no image of her, only a faint scent and a sense of loudness in his ears, a feeling of being suffocated.

And now this, his chest sticky with Vicks VapoRub, the humid heat of the radiator, and the misery of being alone and sick and wanting her.

Well, Kate wasn't alone. Not any more.

He brought everything back into her bedroom and carefully covered her with the cool sheet, then propped the pillow up on the other side in case she turned over in her sleep. He caught a whiff of something and realized the chicken might be boiling over on the stove.

Uh-oh.

Rick headed quickly back into the kitchen and rescued the boiling chicken, smelled the noodles to see if they were singed. He pulled the pot off the burner and set it aside, went back to the computer to see what he was supposed to do next.

Oh, wait. No. Stock? What was stock?

He'd been reading the wrong one. This was the recipe for chicken soup with stock and the other was the one he'd thought he was doing for chicken soup made with broth.

What was stock?

The internet sucked. He needed a fucking CIA database. He was almost certain the CIA would know what the fuck chicken stock was. And how that might be different from broth.

He glanced back at the stuff in the pot, timidly drew a spoon from her drawer and tasted the concoction.

Oh, gross. No. That wasn't right at all.

Shit.

Maybe that Jewish deli had chicken soup? Or some kind of soup. He'd go back there and get it for her and some potato cakes because apparently she really liked them and she'd told him she wished he hadn't thrown them away. He could do that. Really quickly, and that would make it right.

He'd also have to take out her trash.

\-----

The trash was first; he dumped it in her chute and it fell down to the dumpster. He went back inside her apartment and locked the door again, pushed her spare key into his pocket where he could feel it, know if he was pick-pocketed.

New mission: find her something edible. He could leave the cooking for later, after he'd had time to do a thorough and complete work-up. He needed a few culinary lessons, a tutorial from an expert, and some recon on what her favorite foods might be. Obviously she wouldn't allow him to follow her around the city for a few weeks, take notes and observe, even though he really wanted to. He craved it - the anonymity of knowing more about her than she could possibly know about him, the sense of control and power, the idea that he could tailor his approach and achieve maximum results.

But she wasn't an asset, she was a woman.

And he didn't have weeks. He had today, so far, and maybe tonight if she let him stay. Anything beyond that was wishful thinking, and then-

Ireland.

Richard stepped quietly down the hallway to the bedroom. If she was awake, he'd tell her he was going to get them dinner and see if she needed anything else. If she was asleep - well, he'd probably watch her sleep for a minute to be sure she was really out and then he'd go.

When he stepped through her open door, she was awake.

Kate was huddled on her side in the middle of the bed with her head propped on a pillow, her eyes sleepy and somehow sweet, and her hands pressed between her pulled up knees.

"Hey, Kate," he murmured. Tonight he'd lather the Vicks on her throat and chest and let her sleep, but right now the cold medicine seemed to be kicking in, keeping her sedate.

"Hey," she mumbled. She rocked with a small cough, a tight thing that crumbled before it made it out, and she slid her foot down the bed and curled her bare toes. "Crawl in with me? I’m cold."

He'd been about to tell her he was leaving for chicken soup, but no way. Not now. No way.

"Yeah," he answered, smiling softly down at her. Rick dropped his coat over the foot of the bed and pushed off his shoes again, came into bed with her. Kate sighed when he laid behind her, and their bodies moved in sync to line them up.

He tucked his chin at the top of her head and wrapped his arm a little tighter around her waist. She drew his forearm up between her breasts and cradled his hand between hers, those strong, thin fingers around his own.

He swallowed hard through the tight feeling in his throat. He couldn’t help shifting his knee up between hers, sheltering her with all of him.

Her heartbeat was slow and steady beneath his palm, her body curved into the cove of his like she belonged.

He didn’t know how a week was ever going to be enough.

\-----

He must have dozed.

When he woke, Kate was on top of him, awake. Awake on top of him with her hands planted on either side of his head and watching him.

He blinked.

“You wake fast,” she husked.

“You...” He faded out at the dark intensity in her eyes, the studious way she watched him. Her body along his was burning up, melting against him, her legs between his so that her pelvis hit him just right.

“Why did you stay?” she whispered, tilting her head and laying her cheek against his chest once more, still completely on top of him.

He dragged his hand out from between them, rubbed her back slowly. “You’re sick, love. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know anyone who would,” she murmured. Her voice was textured with the last few hours’ coughing, and she spoke from his chest, apparently too tired to lift her head.

“Your dad would-”

She groaned. “Rick.”

He shut up. He didn’t know - he wanted to, but he didn’t. She said she had no one, so he took that and he built from there. “I don’t - I don’t either,” he told her.

“You don’t know anyone who’d stay?”

He ran his fingers through her hair, frowning past the urge to have her say she’d be on that list. That she would reciprocate. That wasn’t what was important right now anyway. “No. My father’s not much for...”

“For what?”

He didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. “I don’t know. He’s all about the service. That’s his life. If I’m not in the service, then I’m not...”

“In his life?”

He sighed. “He raised me,” Rick said finally. He fell silent because he didn’t know anything else to add that might explain it, and it wasn’t just because he had to keep the CIA’s secrets. “He has a plan. And I’m either falling in line with the plan or I’m - not. Not anything. Not... anything.”

Her palm flattened out against his chest and she lifted her head to look at him. She’d narrowed her eyes and her hair was falling around her face. “Rick, you’re 32 years old. Why are you still falling in line with someone else’s plan?”

He dropped his head, stared up at the ceiling, unable to answer that. Kate slid off his chest, but he gripped her harder, a sudden panic flashing through his body that she might leave.

“I need to sit up,” she rasped. “Let me-”

“Sorry,” he got out, lifting them both upright in the bed. She sat apart from him, drew a blanket up over her shoulders. She looked like she was still waiting for an answer, and he thought maybe she was going on the offensive because his comment about her father had struck too close.

He was figuring it out, what to do with her, how to do it. Instead of answering her question, he came up with one of his own. “If I hadn’t shown up, what would you have done?”

She cocked her head at him. “Woken up, peeled off my clothes, gotten in bed and suffered through. Like I’m doing now, only alone.”

“But I peeled off your clothes.”

She grunted and a flicker of a smile slipped across her face. “Hmm.”

“It was fun. You’re pretty.”

She laughed, casting him a swift look. “Oh, yeah?”

“Gorgeous, even when you’re hacking up a lung.”

“You’re crazy.” She rolled her eyes and then winced, closing her lids quickly. “Ow.”

“Need more tylenol?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like your head is killing you. And you’re feverish, Kate. Your skin is-”

“Can you just leave me alone for a second?” she muttered. “Shit.”

He regarded her hunched shoulders, the way she rubbed her temples, the droop to her body; she was sick and he was antagonizing her when he’d only meant to be good for her.

“Maybe I should-”

“Leave?” she got out bitterly. Only the question didn’t sound like exasperation at all; it sounded like disappointment.

Her head lifted, challenge in her eyes, her jaw set, and he realized with startling clarity that she’d been sabotaging her life for so long now that she didn’t know how to stop.

Pushing him away, making herself closed off and untouchable, ignoring every right instinct. They didn’t have to be soul mates; they only had to hang out, enjoy each other’s bodies, be willing to partner in some amazing sex. It wasn’t a life sentence; it was supposed to be fun.

Be cool , she’d told him, but already he could see that she didn’t know how to do that either. So everyone and everything got kicked out of her life. Including her father, whose losing battle with a bottle meant he couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m not leaving,” he said. “I have five days more, and I want what we had the night we met. I want to touch you again and make you come; I want to watch you fall apart around my cock.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“But you’re sick,” he went on. “So I’ll hang out and read a book, run down to the deli for dinner for both of us, maybe figure out how to nap. I’ve heard that’s good, but never had a chance really.”

“Nap,” she muttered.

“Nap,” he confirmed. “Though I expect to be bad at it.”

“You were napping when I woke,” she said then, lifting an eyebrow. It wasn’t acceptance exactly, but she wasn’t telling him to leave either.

“I was resting my eyes.”

She smiled a little, faintly, hardly there at all. “Sure you were.”

“Waiting on you.”

“And you know, Rick,” she started, “if you’re looking to make me come-”

He cock jumped at just the word coming out of her mouth.

“-you could always get a start on that one.”

He stared at her. Kate leaned in and put her hands on his knees, shifted forward until she was climbing into his lap. She was still in his t-shirt and her pale pink panties, and the heat of her was intoxicating.

“Kate.”

“I don’t have much energy,” she murmured. “But the way you were talking, sounded like you don’t mind doing the work.”

“I don’t mind,” he rasped.

“I don’t mind coming,” she hummed. “And it might help me fall asleep.”

He’d totally buy into that excuse, totally. “Yeah,” he got out. “Yeah, it might.”

“I’ve heard an orgasm can cure anything,” she said, dragging her cheek against his and breathing so hotly against his ear. Her hand dropped to his lap and she rubbed the back of her knuckles against his crotch.

He grunted into her neck and gripped her tighter, slipped his hand to the bare skin at her ribs, trailed under her shirt to her breast.

“You’re on fire,” he groaned.

“I need you to make me come.”

“You should be resting,” he tried.

“So lay me down and push your fingers between my legs.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, his heart beating so hard now. He thought he might need to grind his cock into the mattress, relieve the pressure, so he went ahead and laid her down, let his hips settle half on top of hers.

“Touch me, Rick,” she murmured, her lashes falling to her cheeks.

He dragged the shirt up and lowered his head to touch his mouth to her sternum; her skin rippled and a little gasp slipped past her lips.

His hand cupped her breast and he closed his eyes at the perfect, hot weight of her in his palm once more. “I missed you.”

“Don’t miss me. I’m not worth the missing,” she sighed.

“Oh, but everything about you is extraordinary,” he sighed, lowering his nose to her breast and breathing against her nipple. She moaned and rolled upwards, her back arching and her neck straining.

“Rick, stop talking.”

“Only one way to shut me up,” he said back, dragging his lips down her torso and touching her belly button with his mouth. “I want to taste you.”

“You...” She trailed off, going still as he hooked his chin in her panties, tried to roll them down. Her hips bumped up at the touch of his nose to her groin, and he slipped his fingers under the waistband and tugged off her panties.

“I’ll stop talking if I’m eating you out.”

She whimpered and her fingers curled at his ear, gripping hard, but not pulling him away. Rick pressed his nose to her sex and inhaled sharply; she gasped and her hips jumped for him again.

“You’re so eager, baby. I know you want my mouth on you, my tongue stroking and playing with your clit-”

“Fuck, just do it already,” she growled, shoving on his head with her hand.

He grinned and settled between her legs, spread them wider to accommodate his shoulders, and then he touched his mouth to her sex.

She gasped, and her hips arched hard into his face. Rick pushed her back to the mattress and held her down, pressed his tongue between her folds. She was panting now, squirming and writhing under his hands, and her sex was on fire - burning hot with her fever and tasting like vodka and strawberries.

“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, you - you - please.”

So fast with the pleading tonight, so ready for it. She was sick, and that seemed to make her burn brighter.

Rick massaged her inside thighs and rubbed his tongue along her sex, tasting the length of her, the hot contractions of her core as she sought him. Her knees kept coming up, her hips kept bucking under his hands, like she’d never learned to be still, to relax with it, and he was fucking turned on by the idea that she’d only ever allowed him to do this to her.

He arrowed his tongue and thrust shallowly inside her, felt her groan before he heard it, the sharp and wild jerks of her body. She needed more and he wanted to see her face suddenly, wanted to watch her fall apart for him.

Rick crawled up her body, shaking off her insistent hands trying to push him downward, and he dragged himself on top of her. She stared up at him, eyes so feverish and twice as intense for it, and he lowered his mouth to kiss her.

She moaned at her taste on his tongue, her body spiking up for his. But Rick pushed his hand between them and knuckled her legs wider, making room for him. She was groaning into his mouth, these noises that sounded so visceral and primal as she sucked on his tongue and bit his bottom lip.

He found her clit with two fingers and rubbed, trying to get at that painfully aroused nub, but he kept slipping around, sliding through her arousal that weeped around his hand. She would hitch her breath and rise up when he stroked to the right, her heartbeat giving a mad little double pulse.

Rick did it again, purposefully missing her clit to scrape along the sensitive side of her folds. She tensed and her knee knocked into his hip, her body rigid with it, her eyes flashing open.

“Rick.”

And then she was coming, violently, her whole body working itself off against his cupped hand - and he really hadn’t even done anything.

Her arms were locked around his neck, her knees pressed to his hips and clinging, and she’d crashed her forehead up into his, her skull grinding into his bone.

She groaned and collapsed back to the bed, dragging him down with her, and he could feel her shaking under him.

Holy fuck. He was filing that one away.

Make Beckett come with one stroke.

\-----

“Yeah, you’re right. No fun doing it alone,” she growled. Her voice was right in his ear and he felt her wriggling under him, squirming closer. “We shouldn’t have to do it alone, not when you give such excellent oral sex.”

“Is that your way of telling me we can be fuck buddies now?” he chuckled, lifting his head.

She was grinning, and maybe a little punch drunk on meds and that orgasm, but she tightened her arms around his neck and dragged him down. “Come here. You feel good; stop moving away.”

Most of his weight was on her, but she hummed when he lowered his torso back to hers, cheek against her chest. He could hear her heart beat, feel her body taking shallow breaths. She was curling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking down and around, again and again.

Fuck, it felt good. So good. Stupid as it was, the way she petted him now felt more amazing than the first time he’d slid inside her.

This felt like it was real.

She turned her head towards him, her lips ghosting his forehead. “You gonna nap now, baby?”

He grinned as he realized she’d done it again, said baby like he’d done to her a few times. She meant it sarcastically, he could hear it in her voice, but her saying it at all made him feel good. “I’ll try it out. You gonna nap too?”

“Might be already there. Someone ripped an orgasm right out of me.”

He chuckled and turned his lips into her skin, kissed her softly. “Let me shift a little so your knobby, hard little collarbone doesn’t crack my jaw.”

She grunted, but he was already moving her around, putting her where he wanted her, arranging them so she’d be able to still breathe when they both fell asleep. He shoved the blankets and pillows behind his back and dragged her in front of him, her head resting back on his shoulder.

“What’d you do that for?” she muttered.

Rick pulled the covers up, half-inclined with her spooned against his front. He wrapped both arms around her, palmed a breast. “So I can get at you when I want you,” he murmured in her ear.

She let out a long breath, and her body relaxed against him. “Yeah, okay. Good - good idea.”

“I thought so.” He kissed the side of her neck and lowered his hand, settling in. “Sleep, Beckett. More for you later.”

He could already tell that taking comfort from him wasn’t cool.

\-----

He had meant to leave, get her some soup at the deli, but it was just too good right here, being able to monitor her fever by pressing skin to skin. Rick rubbed his thumbs over her hips, brushing under her shirt and along the arc of her ribs.

He could do this all day, all night, watching her sleep and being able to touch her, his cock hard but not insistent. He could see the shadow of her sex and the curve of her pelvis when he rucked up her shirt like this, but her skin pebbled with goose bumps and he stopped.

She had drifted off quickly enough but he knew it wouldn’t last; the medicine would wear off and the coughing would start again. He needed to get her some food - that was important - and probably more water as well.

Too bad. This was such a nice place to stay.

Rick reached down and tugged the blanket up over her, settled it around her waist to keep her from sweating too much when the fever spiked. Now that she was deeper asleep, he could ease her back to the pillows and leave her propped up in bed alone.

He didn’t want to, but-

The sharp jolt of the door snapped the sweet, tender silence. Rick paused, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow; Kate shivered and curled up, but she didn’t wake. The door rattled again and Rick lowered her to the mattress, slipped out of the bed searching for his weapon.

He pulled the leather holster from his coat at the foot of the bed and carried it with him towards the front door. The wood he’d reclaimed from the maintenance closet was holding firm, and Rick took a second to draw his gun and assess the situation.

A key was turning in the lock.

Rick’s nostrils flared and he shoved the gun back inside the holster, pushed it into the back of his jeans as he reached for the door. He unlocked it before the person on the other side could finish, and he opened it forcefully.

Mike Royce was on the other side.

Royce reached for his weapon and Richard went into decisive action. He stepped into him, cleanly took the gun before it could clear the man’s holster. He drove Royce out into the hallway with an elbow against his windpipe and slammed him against the far wall.

The light fixtures rattled and Royce wheezed. “What the fuck-”

“You were too slow,” he said in explanation. “We have a different problem. She’s fainted at work and it took you until now to come check on her?”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Royce growled. “She didn’t let you in. I saw signs of forced entry on her door and you’re the punk-ass who accosted her in the grocery store.”

“She was passed out in her uniform, you asshole. I wouldn’t’ve had to force entry if you’d have done your job. Looked out for her.”

“Let go of me,” Royce snapped.

Richard pushed off against the man and stepped back, his hands on his hips as he regarded her so-called training officer. “I might’ve had to force my way in, but she didn’t kick me out. So you need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving until I talk to Beckett.”

“You aren’t going anywhere near her-”

“The fuck you say,” Royce growled, stepping into Rick filled with all of that self-righteous male posturing that meant he was off-balanced. “I’ll see her when I want to.”

“I don’t think so. She’s sick. Wouldn’t want to infect everyone.” He smirked because it would irritate Royce and the asshole deserved it - and also because Rick wanted an excuse to thrash this guy and all the man had to do was draw back his fist and it would be on.

“You’re unstable,” Royce said darkly. “And dangerous. And a good cop like Beckett doesn’t need to get mixed up with the likes of you.”

“I don’t think you need to be worried about Beckett holding her own. Have you met her?”

“I have. Have you any idea what she’s dealing with? You have no fucking clue. You don’t get to force your way in here, fuck up her life, and then waltz-”

“I have no intention of waltzing anywhere,” Rick said, keeping calm but barely.

“Oh, and what? This is a love match? She told me you were a crude fuck.”

“No, she didn’t,” he said. He was definitely calm now, the so very obvious lack of real information at Royce’s disposal, the way the older man was grasping for insults. “Beckett doesn’t give out details.”

Royce bristled. “I’m going in.”

Rick caught him with a hand against his chest, used his strength and height to press the man back. He knew it was petty, but he didn’t care. “You’re not. You said no, remember? I said yes. Hell yes. And you need to leave.”

Royce puffed up his chest to say something, but just then the door opened behind them. Rick turned his head and saw Kate barefoot, fevered, and shuffling towards them in nothing but that t-shirt of his and what he hoped were boxer shorts below though they weren’t visible.

“What are you doing?” she rasped. Her eyes were on Rick though and she pressed a hand to her forehead. “Rick, he hurt you?”

Richard snorted and leveled her a look. “That’s your concern? That he hurt me?” Oh wait. That was her concern? He grinned and reached for her hip, dragged her towards him in the hallway to drop a kiss on her cheek. “You’re worried about me, baby.”

Kate huffed and elbowed him off of her. She narrowed her eyes but she turned to Royce. “Mike, what’s up? You need me?”

“What’s this abusive asshole doing back here?”

Kate stiffened and stepped in front of Rick. “I think you’ve overstepped, Royce.”

“I’m just looking out for you, Kate. This guy is bad news and you need to watch yourself.”

Rick wanted to put a fist in the old guy’s face, but he wanted more to have Kate back him up. And she was - or at least standing up for herself - so Rick stepped back, leaned against the wall beside her open door. He wanted to watch this play out; this could be fun.

“Rick,” she said clearly. “Go back inside.”

“I was going to get you some soup,” he answered. “So I’ll just wait right here.”

She turned her head to him. “Go get me some soup then,” she said pointedly. Her hair was a mess, and her face had that sated, well-fucked softness that he was beginning to see a lot now. He loved that too.

“I’m not sure I should leave you alone with him,” he said honestly.

“I make up my own mind about who I fuck, Richard,” she said. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

He’d meant, actually, to insinuate that Royce was the one who was dangerous, but instead of pushing it, he thought the wisest course of action was to let Beckett think he trusted her to hold her own.

He did, actually, even fevered and aching, but he didn’t like Royce hanging around. This guy was the one who got away, the one she’d exposed enough of herself to that she actually asked - and Royce had said no.

But he knew it would take him further with her if he left right now.

So Rick stepped into her and dusted a kiss across her cheek, a soft breath at her ear. “Any special requests? And I’m talking about soup, love, not sexual positions.”

She actually laughed, but it caused her cough to rattle out as well, and Rick was pleased when she clutched the edge of his jacket to hold on through it. He caught her by the hips and held her up, ducking his head to look in her eyes.

She waved him on. “I’m okay. Go. I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured. He didn’t want to leave, he really wanted to stay at her back like a guard dog, but he knew - he was convinced - that the way to stay permanently was to let her have this. “Back in a sec.”

Royce gave him a baleful glare as Rick walked away, but the man wouldn’t be getting inside that apartment. And they both knew it.

It was a win for Rick.

\-----

When Rick got to the counter at the deli, he had a moment’s hesitation as he realized he’d have to decide what kind of soup to get her. Was Beckett a matzah ball soup person or straight up chicken? He’d already decided to get more potato cakes, since that had seemed so important, but more than that, he thought he should get enough food for a few days, in case this illness persisted.

He didn’t want to have to go out again.

He got a big tub of chicken noodle - because that was supposed to be the soul food - and then he ordered latkes, some hard bread, and more of those cabbage rolls they’d eaten. He figured he could eat the cabbage rolls while she had soup - he was pretty sure soup wouldn’t hold him.

He walked quickly back to her apartment, anxious at being gone for so long, wondering about what he’d find. He didn’t think - after that orgasm especially - to find Mike Royce still there, but he wasn’t sure what kind of mood Royce had left in his wake.

A pleased and happy Beckett ready to mess around a little? Or a pissed off, sick Beckett who wanted to kick him to the couch?

When Rick got to the apartment building, he spotted Royce still skulking around. Richard paused and shifted into a doorway, narrowing his eyes at the cop. Royce was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the side of the building across the street, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

Rick checked his jacket for the gun, thumb touching the safety before he headed straight for Royce.

Mike saw him and straightened up, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with his heel. He pushed both hands into his leather jacket and winced into the sun backlighting Rick.

When Richard got to the man’s spot, he shifted the bag of food into the crook of his arm and waited.

“You fuck her up, I come after you,” Mike said. His face remained passive, but Rick could hear the threat in the tension of his voice. “You do right by her.”

“I think that’s up to Beckett - whether or not I’m doing right.”

“You know that’s not true,” Mike said, eyes narrowing as he squinted into the sun. “There’s right and there’s wrong here. You better fucking stay away from the wrong.”

And then Mike shoved past him and down the sidewalk, and Rick was left with a strange clench of his chest, not sure if he really did know what was wrong, what was right.

Only that Beckett was sick, and she needed food, and he was still down here on the street when he should be up there.

So he turned and headed into her building, trying to shake the confrontation but not sure why it had bothered him.

\-----

Kate was asleep on the couch when he came inside the apartment, a blue blanket pulled up around her shoulders and her head pillowed on the arm like she had meant to wait up for him. Rick pulled the container of soup from the bag and found a bowl in her cabinet, ladled some out for her while she slept.

When it was ready, he carried it in to the living room and placed the soup on the coffee table, sat on the couch next to her to wake her up.

She startled as she did, a noise of confusion and a jerk of her limbs, but she saw him and relaxed, eased upright as he tugged on her arm.

“You got soup?” she said, sliding down into the floor to lean in over the bowl. She seemed to be breathing it in, her eyes closed, and she slowly picked up the spoon. “What about you?”

“Some cabbage rolls,” he admitted. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring me some water, would you?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“I might have some crackers...”

“I bought bread - you want that instead?”

She smiled up at him. “That sounds good. Some of theirs?”

“Yeah. And - uh - well, I bought potato cakes too. Because you seemed disappointed I’d thrown away the others, so-”

“Rick,” she said, and then shook her head, cutting off her own words. “Yeah. That’s - sweet.”

She buried her head in her hand, and he took that as his cue to go get the rest of it, headed back into the kitchen for his own food.

It was close enough to dinner time and he hadn’t eaten lunch either. He was used to eating a lot more than this, but he also had those stretches of time where his mission didn’t allow for three square meals. So he was used to sudden hunger and having to do without. He’d be fine.

Still, the smell of the cabbage rolls made his stomach growl and he was absurdly pleased to be able to have gotten her some food, to sit beside her on the floor and share a meal and just - be here.

He brought everything back, bottles of water cradled against his chest, and he opened his arm to let them drop in her lap. Kate laughed, coughing with it as she caught the bottles, and he sank down to the floor with her.

She opened both bottles, set one at his place as she drank from the other. He watched her a moment, the work of her throat and her lips around the bottle, and then he turned to his own food.

She leaned in against his shoulder for a moment, nudging him, and when he looked at her again, she was smiling.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?” he asked, because he didn’t know how to ask about Royce. Or if he was even allowed.

But she seemed to know, because she waved a hand towards the hallway and buried another cough into her elbow, eyes closing with the force of it. He picked up the water bottle and put it in her hand and she sipped, blinking slowly, leaning back against the couch.

He waited and finally she did it again, that gesture of he’s not important. “I took care of it. I’m sorry he was harassing you. He’s like - a big brother.”

“A big brother?” he repeated, disbelieving.

She gave him a sharp look and he dropped it, but he wished she’d tell him. More, he wished she wanted to tell him.

“Okay, so he’s overprotective. I get it. He told me not to fuck you up, Beckett.”

“That’s too bad,” she sighed. “Because I do love how you fuck.”

Rick laughed, a little surprised by her, and he dropped his hand to her knee, heavy, and squeezed. “I love your mouth.”

“Oh you do, huh? Because of the words that come out of it, or because of what I do with it?”

“Oh, fuck, both. Can my answer be all of the above? Because you are seriously talented in all aspects of your mouth.”

“So are you,” she hummed, leaning in to brush that mouth at his cheek. “And I’d kiss you, but I’d get you sick.”

“Go ahead and kiss me,” he murmured, turning his head in to her jaw. “I don’t get sick.”

“Direct contact, swapping body fluids - think you’d be next to fall, soldier.”

“I never get sick,” he insisted. “Haven’t ev-” He paused and shook his head. “I was going to say I’ve never been sick, but actually, I caught a whiff of that VapoRub in the closet and it reminded me. I have actually. Once when I was maybe three or four. I had a cold, I guess, and my mother lathered me up in that stuff and I was always shivering.”

“Your mother?” she murmured, shifting into him so that her thigh was draped over his. “I thought you said your father raised you.”

“He did. Yeah. I don’t know who my mother was. Oh, well, I mean, I know her last name, but I don’t know... I haven’t seen her since I was about four or five.”

“Did she die?” Kate rasped. He glanced over and saw the knowing in her eyes; she knew what it was to be motherless, even if she’d had her mother most of her life.

Oh, Kate. He couldn’t begin to explain how this wasn’t the same. “She might be dead,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t - have you never looked for her?”

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“Because she’s - she’s your mom.”

“She’s not,” he said simply. “She’s my biological mother, sure. But it was either too hard for her or too much work or it was cutting into her social life, and she gave me to my father. He raised me.”

“You don’t even wonder?”

“Wonder what?”

She sighed and nudged into his shoulder, rolling her eyes a little. “Where she is, what she’s doing, why she gave you to your dad.”

“No.” He shrugged and tried to go back to his meal, uncomfortable with the way she was looking at him. “I don’t care what happened. This is how it is.”

He felt her chin come to the top of his shoulder as she leaned in against him. “Okay,” she said softly. Her fingers were at the nape of his neck, stroking. “You don’t care. I think maybe you’re just telling yourself that because it’s too hard to think about why she - why she didn’t want you any more. Believe me - it sucks to be constantly wondering why am I not good enough? But if you keep ignoring it, Rick, it’ll eat you up.”

He turned swiftly to her, locked in on that admission. “You’re good enough,” he said urgently. “And your dad’s not-”

“This isn’t about me,” she said stiffly, drawing away from him and going back to her soup. “This is - it’s not me. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he said, letting it slide, agreeing so he could stay. “And I’m telling you - she’s a non-entity.”

“So your father raised you. And now what? You do whatever he tells you to, you fall in line, because he’s the only one who wanted you? And if you don’t, then you have no one.”

He turned his head back to his cabbage rolls, stared dumbly at his plate without really seeing it.

Maybe Royce should’ve warned him about Kate. Because Rick had a feeling Mike Royce had been fucked up by her - and Richard would be too.

Maybe he was already.

\-----

“Best defense is a good offense,” she said into the quiet, bumping his shoulder. “Thanks for getting me soup.”

It was an apology, he realized, for her comments about his questionable parents - because he’d dug into it about her father, just like on their dinner date. So he nodded. “Anything you want, you let me know. I can go get more.”

I can take it.

She stopped talking though, no more questions about his mother, nothing offered about Royce. He was thinking about her ‘good offense’ comment while he ate his own meal, and it occurred to him that she might give a little more if she got a little more.

So when he’d polished off the second cabbage roll, he took a long swallow of water and figured he should jump right in.

“My mother was an actress, I think. She was on Broadway - or off? I have a child’s memory of it, so it might have been low-budget productions,” he rumbled, giving her a smile to share his self-deprecation. “She’d drag me along to everything. I suppose I got in the way. I remember smacking my head on a piece of scenery and needing stitches but she couldn’t afford them or maybe she couldn’t leave rehearsal, and so the costume designer stitched me up. Here. See?”

He rubbed his finger over his eyebrow until he felt the barely there scar, ducked his head for her to look. She brought her hand up to cover his own, but her fingers came to his collarbone.

“This is the scar I’m more interested in,” she said. Her voice was rough and broken with coughing all day. “This is - huge, Rick.”

He brought his hand down and touched the fat white scar that dragged along his collarbone. Where he’d nearly gotten his throat slit.

“Yeah,” he said stupidly.

“What happened?”

He blinked and looked down, could barely make out the pink line that looked angry in the heat of her apartment. “I - it’s - while in service,” he answered finally. CIA service, of course, so it wasn’t technically a lie, but he still felt like shit for it.

And he lied all the time. To everyone.

But Kate wasn’t everyone.

“I - um - it’s classified, actually,” he said finally, his throat closing up.

She pressed her hand to his collarbone and covered the scar, her thumb nestled into the dip. “Don’t tell me then. I understand. War is - I understand.” She lowered her head and kissed the edge of the scar and she didn’t - she had no idea - but her sympathy and her kiss and how she didn’t care. She didn’t mind.

No one ever said - no, you don’t have to tell me.

He palmed the side of her face and brought her lips up to his, met her for a brushing, light kiss that wasn’t at all what he wanted. So he took it deeper, stroking his tongue across hers and giving her some small measure of that grace and acceptance she’d just given him.

Whatever her deal was, whatever had happened to her mother and was happening with her father and going on with Royce and all of it - it made her into this. Beautiful and sharp and intelligent and cunning and frustrating and a challenge and - he just - it was more than he’d ever thought to find.

He wanted to keep it.

Her. He had to admit it now. Own up to it.

He wanted to keep her.

\-----

“Rick?” she croaked. “What did you do to my front door?”

He came in from the bathroom, rubbing his wet hands on his jeans, and saw her standing in the living room, the blanket pulled around her neck and dragging the floor. She looked heartbreakingly young - a girl in need - and he couldn’t help standing before her and tucking the blanket tighter, pulling her into him.

She came because he didn’t let her resist, and she knocked her forehead against his chin. “What’d you do to my door?” she grumbled. She sounded better than she had before dinner, so maybe the soup had made good on its promises.

“I kicked it in, baby.”

She growled at him, but it started her coughing again, and she vibrated in his arms even as he cupped the back of her head and tried to keep her still. When she seemed to be finished, and she’d pushed in against his neck to breathe, her pulse rapid with effort, he tried to explain.

“I knew you were inside, but you weren’t answering, so I...”

“Panicked,” she rasped. “You panicked.”

“Panicked?”

“You have shellshock or something, Rick? Because the paranoia and kicking in my door - that’s a little extreme.”

“Ah.” He swallowed hard and pressed her a little closer, trying to figure out how to unentangle the truth from the lies, the honesty from all the ways he absolutely had to keep himself in the shadows.

“It’s okay,” she said, the words rough as they left her throat. Like she wasn’t the one sick and fevered and feeling miserable. Like it was him instead. “It’s okay to be - I understand. You don’t scare me, you know. It happens.”

He lowered his chin to the top of her head, unsettled by the deceit. So he went with what he could say. “I’m trained to deal with shellshock,” he answered. “It’s just that I know - all too well - how people can be taken from me. How short a chance we get.”

“You said the men in your squad,” she rasped. “Bleeding hearts.”

He went still and blinked past the sudden truth that gaped at him from the dark corners.

“How many died?” she asked.

“Seventeen,” he answered, without even hearing it come out of his mouth.

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s a fucking war,” he said, even and without heat, without power at all. It was merely war.

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” she said, stepping back now and pushing him towards the couch. If he’d meant to, he could have stood his ground, but he didn’t want to; he wanted to go where she wanted him to be.

“And now where are you going to be stationed?” she asked. “After this week is up. You said furlough for a week.”

“I - classified,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Ireland hardly fit into his cover story of being a soldier on leave ready to get back to the war, but he found himself saying it anyway. “Dublin. It means ‘black pool’ - the English word for the Irish word - things get repurposed and reclaimed and fought over like that there.”

She was staring at him from the middle of her living room floor even as he sank into the cushions. “Ireland?”

“Yes. I was there before - going back to finish what I started.”

“For the army?” she said, tilting her head. “I hadn’t realized...”

He let her go on not realizing because he couldn’t disavow her of the knowledge she hadn’t known, the knowledge she now thought she had.

It got more and more convoluted with every year of his life on this earth, and he was suddenly weary of it.

“Come here,” he gruffed. “Sit with me.”

She didn’t move; she looked entirely too intelligent, standing like a child in the living room with the blanket pulled up around her shoulders and her eyes soft but calculating.

“Kate. I want to touch you; come here.”

She perked up at that, her feet starting forward almost as if without her consent. She huffed back at him but kept moving, came to him on the couch and straddled his lap, the blanket around her like a royal cape.

He snaked his arms beneath the blanket and sneaked his hands under the shirt, found the soft, silky, heated skin of her thighs and waist, her ass, and her drew her closer.

She rocked over his lap as she settled, a wicked twist to her mouth, but all of her discovery calculation was gone. Now it was cleverness of a different sort, and he liked it better.

“Kiss me,” he murmured.

“I’m sick. I have a fever.”

“I don’t get sick,” he reminded her. “And yes, you’re hot. So. Very-”

She leaned in and pressed her mouth over his, her heat scalding his tongue and burning down his throat. He clutched her hips and stroked the bare skin of her ass, wondered if she’d come out into the hallway like this.

“Were you-” he broke away, gasping to catch his breath. “Were you commando when you told off Royce in your hallway?”

“Who said I told him off?”

“You’re you. Of course you did.” He squeezed her ass and dragged her against his lap, tighter to his groin, let her feel the scrape of his jeans against her bare thighs. “And were you not wearing underwear then too, Beckett?”

“Hmm, what do you think?”

“I think you’re fucking unbelievable and I wish like hell I’d known then,” he growled. He attacked her mouth again, grateful for the way she moaned against his tongue and came after him with equal desperation.

It wasn’t just him; he wasn’t the only one who felt like this was an impossible burning desperate thing between them that absolutely had to be quenched.

Only nothing was ever quenched. Every time he fucked her, he wanted her again. Just looking at her made him hard, watching her mouth as she spoke, glimpsing her frightening intelligence and accurate insight only made him want to worship the body that housed such a spirit.

“Can you - how do you feel?” he mumbled, going for polite but sounding needy even to his own ears.

“I’d feel better with your cock inside me this time,” she whispered.

He groaned and clutched her harder, tried to still the urgency that thrummed in his blood and stiffened his cock, but it was no fucking use.

“I would too,” he admitted. “Help me out here.”

She hummed something at his throat and her hands found his cock through his jeans, stroked and fondled.

He growled and knocked her hands away, unbuttoned his jeans himself. “I said help me out. Not make me ache.”

“But it’s so much more fun when it aches,” she grinned. Her hands met his in complement, unzipping and working the waistband down, shifting on his lap for him to slide his jeans off.

“What are you-”

“All the way,” she rasped. “I want you on top. Shoes off, pants off-”

“Got it, got it,” he groaned, quickly toeing off his shoes and shoving his pants down. He grunted when she angled into him, felt her hand plunge down his boxer briefs. “Holy shit. Yes.”

“You’re already hard,” she murmured, squirming down between the back of the couch and his body. “Lie on top of me. It’s so good when you sink down into me-”

“Fuck.”

“Just like that,” she soothed. Her voice was hoarse and scraping up his insides, making his balls tighten in response to her command.

“Take your shirt off,” he panted, his hands everywhere, uncoordinated, clumsy, wanting skin, those breasts, wanting to cup her breasts and feel.

“Yours too. Hurry. I’m-”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Yes. Shit.” He couldn’t help the way he was thrusting against her, couldn’t even stop himself even as they worked to get undressed. He might die if he couldn’t bury himself inside her, but he might fucking come before that even happened.

“Here, here, here,” she ordered, gripping his cock in her hand and making him shout. “Oh, yes, baby, you’re so hard.”

“Fuck, I need inside you. Stop playing around, Kate.”

She writhed under him, her thighs parting and one knee coming up at his hip, heel digging into his hamstring. She pushed his cock where it needed to be and he felt it - the heat of her, the fucking wet heat - and he thrust home.

She cried out and met him; he got an arm under her ass and angled her steeply, set up a grueling rhythm. Her body stretched and gripped his cock, so damn tight, weeping with arousal so that everything was slick and narrow, amazing and intense.

Her breasts scraped his chest and rubbed twin points of burning desire that shot straight to his cock. He wanted his mouth on her breasts, his mouth on those tight beaded nipples, but he couldn’t - couldn’t - the position wouldn’t let him get at her, and he was so damn frustrated he fucked her harder and tried to make up for it.

She was moaning now, every thrust a hitch of her breath, her fingers digging into his ass, her body rising hard into his. Her mouth opened at his neck and the pressure of her teeth with the wet search of her tongue made him shout.

“Oh, baby,” she gasped. “Oh, please. Please, I need to come. Please let me come.”

He grunted and gripped her ass tighter, shifting hard to one elbow to let his free hand slip between them. The sweat of her belly against the back of his hand made his blood thunder through his cock, and then he was there, the frantic place, and he rubbed his fingers around and around until she snapped.

Her orgasm burst over them, a frenzy of tight, uncontrollable contractions, and he found himself roaring out his own climax into her body, pounding it out until he was sacked on top of her.

She worked her arm slowly out and around his neck, held him against her, and she turned her mouth to his scruff and nipped him. Softly. Like love.

He fell asleep without realizing he was even close to worn out.


	6. Chapter 6

When he woke, it was from something soundless and deep, a kind of sleep he’d only gotten inside one of the CIA’s secure locations. Restorative and necessary and without interruption.

And he was still on top of Kate. He made to move but her arm was wound around his neck and her face pressed against him and one of her legs wrapped around his. He managed to slide to one side at least, keep himself from crushing her, and she struggled closer with a whine in her throat that he didn’t think was conscious.

He drew the blanket up over them both and arranged it haphazardly over their feet, his own toes sticking out but he’d be fine. She was all liquid heat against his chest and side, and he wrapped his arm at her shoulders to pillow her head.

She fell deeper into sleep and her body went lax, her mouth open. It wasn’t exactly sexy, but it was somehow adorable. He couldn’t resist putting his head down close to hers and feeling her breath as it skirted across his chin.

He rubbed designs over her skin, swirls and circles with his limited creativity. He wasn’t the guy for hearts and flowers, but her soft skin and the heat of her body made him want to find more blankets and make her scrambled eggs and figure out chicken noodle soup and shit like that.

It wasn’t just her skin. He had to be honest here; it was the way she’d asked him if he had shellshock and said it was okay she could handle it, and the suggestive curl of her lips that matched the curl of her fingers, and it was the girl standing in her apartment with the blanket draped over her shoulders like she thought herself a superhero.

She was prickly and she was flawed; she was self-righteous and still had the self-assured know-it-all attitude of youth. But he saw all that - he knew it for what it was. And he didn’t mind. In fact, he liked it, liked how confident she was and the way that passion was poured into every aspect of her life. She fucked with intensity but she loved like that too, and he wasn’t sure she knew what the difference was.

He’d been a man without a country for too long now to miss this chance. He wanted her, he wanted this with her, he wanted more than just a few encounters while her defenses were down.

He wanted to work her into his cover profile in Ireland - his American girlfriend - and spend countless hours trying to talk her into visiting him. He’d take time to fly home and be with her-

Richard paused.

The overeager vision dissolved.

Fly home? He had no home. And this wasn’t a job with vacation days; he couldn’t just fly back to New York for the weekend like he could take the time off.

But.

Why not?

Why the hell couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he work it into his cover ID? Who said that guys in Ireland didn’t get American girlfriends and pine away for them like lovesick idiots? Who said he couldn’t sell the lie - the truth? - and leave for a few days every now and again to make it really believable? to throw them all off his scent?

It was fucking ideal, actually, because no one would see him as a threat if he was the fool mooning over his long-distance relationship.

Long-distance relationship.

Oh, fuck. Who the hell was he kidding?

Kate Beckett didn’t do relationships. He was kidding himself if he had - for a second - been thinking she’d consent to phone calls and emails. She wanted to be fucked harder, not from a distance.

Shit.

Shit.

He was not okay with this.

This was not okay.

\-----

"Your cold medicine is expired," he said grimly.

"So? I'm sure it's fine." She reached past him for the box of bright orange pills and tried to yank them out of his hands. He shifted back farther into the bathroom and she stumbled after him, falling into his chest.

"These are expired, Beckett. Just take the cough syrup again."

"I don't want that," she growled. But it caught in her chest and she pressed her hand to her sternum and fought it back. "It makes me too tired."

"But these aren't doing you any good. They don't even get your fever down-"

"So I'll take tylenol with them. Shit, stop acting like my mother."

They both froze, Kate with this terrible, awful look on her face and Rick knew his couldn't be any better. He chucked the pills in the trash before she could grab them again, and he turned her around, hustled her out of the bathroom.

"I'll go get more," he said. "These won't be expired and they'll work and you'll feel great."

"You're a fucking-"

"See? You feel bad, Beckett, and you're starting to take it out on me. So I'll get out of the apartment for a few minutes, let you grumble and give that death stare to the walls."

"You threw away my cold medicine," she groused.

"For your own good."

"I can fucking take care of myself."

"I know, baby," he murmured, nudging her towards the couch. No way in hell she'd consent to lie down in bed after a show like that. "You were doing such a fantastic job of it."

"I'm not your baby," she hissed, elbowing him off and jerking out of his hands.

"Who's baby are you?" he shot back, reaching out and snagging her by the elbow. She spun much too easily and came back hard into his chest. "Not Royce's. Someone else I should know about?"

"You're a fucking asshole," she snapped. "Let go of me."

"You're hot when you're pissed."

"Oh, yeah?" she growled. "Well, this whole macho bullshit routine you got going isn't attractive at all."

She ripped out of his grip and he saw he'd gone too far, stepped over one of her many lines.

He wanted to tease her out of it, wanted to not come back after a trip to the drug store to find she'd changed the locks. So he went after her, catching her by the tail of her t-shirt -his t-shirt - and wrapping his fist in the material to drag her back. She huffed and swept her leg in against his knee, but he he saw it coming.

Rick had her up against the wall and under his body in less than a second, and she was still writhing and fighting him the whole way. He dropped his mouth to her neck and sucked lightly, wetting his tongue along the vibrations of her fury, and he felt her body respond to him despite herself.

She gripped his ear and twisted it, but he only pressed her hips to the wall and reached for her wrists, pinned her arms at her side.

"You fucking-"

"You're my baby," he murmured. "Aren't you, love? Because you mewl when I do this."

Rick shifted his thigh between her knees and rocked her against him, using his tongue to get that spot at the hollow of her throat that made her heart stop for a moment.

She gasped, and he heard her catching the sound in her throat and trying to hold it back.

"Close enough," he whispered, grazing his teeth at her collarbone and rising to her ear. "I love that sound. And macho bullshit is kinda who I am, Kate. You weren't complaining on the couch an hour ago."

"Because on the couch, I had you by your balls," she grunted. "And you're not really in charge like that even if you do think you’re on top."

"Baby, you always have me by the balls - I've pretty much ceded them to you. Standing or lying down. Up against the wall or curled up in your cute red blanket."

"Fuck you."

"Please do," he growled.

She shoved on him and he went this time because there was a crack in her command, a line of amusement that wanted out. And that was good enough for him.

"I'm going to the drug store," he said instead. He caught her fingers in his and brought her knuckles up to his lips for a reverent kiss. "Because the faster you get better, the more sex we can have. There are things I want to do to you that you're gonna need all your breath for, baby."

She laughed, the sound dragged right out of her, and she yanked her hand back with a narrow eyed look. But he could tell the flush in her cheeks wasn't just fever.

Rick leaned in and skimmed his kiss against her cheek, caught suddenly by how much he wanted to make her laugh.

"For tonight anyway, for today, for this week perhaps - you're mine," he whispered. He expected a punch, a shove; he expected her to kick him out for that.

But she lifted her fingers and curled them in the nape of his neck, stroked through his hair. "So go get me cold medicine, Rick. Before you regret losing your balls."

\-----

He left her on the couch with a hot kiss, figured it was a good thing he was walking the extra couple blocks to a pharmacy he hadn't hit up yet. Give her time to cool off, and him as well, and maybe they'd both come back a little more in control of themselves.

He hadn't exactly meant to push her against the wall and half-ravage her. That hadn't been his smoothest move, but he just hadn't dealt with a lot of people who ever said no to him. Okay, that sounded - it made him sound spoiled, and that wasn't it. (Shit, it made him sound like a fucking rapist, and he was certain that wasn’t it. When they got together they just-)

No. He was a CIA operative and he got things done, and usually it wasn't by asking nicely. He wasn't a diplomat; he secured enemy bases and sold guns to the rebels and painted insurgent targets for an air strike.

He blew up shit. He didn't talk to it.

But there was no blowing up Kate Beckett.

Except maybe in bed. And fuck, was that fun, blowing her up. She was a bomb in his face. And he was certain to come through the experience with a damn bleeding heart himself.

Yeah, actually...

That was a little too accurate.

He didn't know what Saturday looked like any longer. He had a flight to Dublin on an Army transport plane that routed through Ramstein AFB, and then he was in Ireland for a year doing the mopping up on Foley's arms dealers - but nowhere in that plan was there room for an NYPD officer whose mother had been murdered and wanted only to get revenge. Or justice. Or whatever the hell Beckett was doing here.

And her drunk father and her training officer that was maybe a little bit more than just her partner, and her clear and obvious love for this city...

A year was asking too much and a year was nothing at all - for him, anyway. At 32, he'd seen a lot and done a lot and while - hell no - he was not ready to retire or anything, he also shouldn't expect Beckett to leave behind her career as a police officer for a year's work in Ireland.

Classified work that he couldn't even explain or talk about or share with her in any meaningful way whatsoever.

Shit.

Richard paid for the cold pills and shoved them into the pocket of his coat, remembered suddenly that he'd bought the damn coat because of her, because she'd figured him out and shown him his weaknesses, and then he'd bought new clothes to match like he was trying to be some kind of new man.

Could he do that?

Rick was struck by the brutal reality that something in him wanted to be a new man, to be better than - than this. Better than the CIA operative who didn't know what to do with a week's free time in New York City. Better than the guy who fell in line with his father's plan.

He wanted to be a guy who could have Kate Beckett in whatever manner she was willing to be had.

He found himself rushing back to her apartment, anxious to test his resolve, play out his theory, see what he could do to validate this newfound sense of purpose. He wanted her, he wanted to have fun with her, but there was a need under it all that was scary and anxious and mesmerizing.

Rick wrenched the key in the security door, pushed through to the narrow lobby, and then took the steps two at a time. A startled tenant drew back against her door with a gasp, but he only grinned and kept going, found himself wanting to get to her, find her, kiss her or touch her or something. Something.

He'd have to be cool, though. Shit, he had to be cool. Had to slow it down and get himself together and just - figure it out. How to tell her he wanted - what did he want? - he didn't know; there weren't words, there were just pictures in his head when before it'd been mostly schematics and logistics and CIA chain of command.

He pushed the key into her lock and opened her front door, tugging the cold meds out of his pocket and finding a grin on his face.

She wasn't on the couch where he'd left her, so he hunted down the hallway to her bedroom, opened the door.

She wasn't in bed. Clothes had been pulled out and left over the comforter, a couple pairs of boots in the middle of the floor, a sweatshirt discarded on a chair.

She was gone.

\-----

He was paralyzed.

He didn't know what to do to find her, and he didn't want his father involved in this, and now he was stuck in her apartment and she was gone and he didn't know how to go after her.

He could call. He had his cell phone and hers was gone, but that smacked of desperation.

Although, tasking a satellite to cover the city seemed perhaps a bit more desperate.

She hadn't left him a note, but of course, she wouldn't have. He wasn't supposed to be here, right? He wasn't supposed to be taking over her life and staying the night and he was supposed to be cool.

Had she gone back in to work? Surely...

He didn't know. She might have; she was stubborn like that. She might want to assert some independence despite being sick and unmedicated.

He'd have to call. Fuck, it felt like defeat, calling her now when he was a damn CIA operative, but if he got CIA resources to find his girlfriend - no, not even that - his one night stand, then what the hell did that make him.

She couldn't have gone far, but what direction? He was completely overwhelmed by a city he didn't know (but damn it, he should; he was supposed to have done his research but he'd stopped for a drink in a bar and the rest was fucking history.)

No. Think it through. Stop acting like a civilian and think like a damn CIA operative.

He pulled out the office chair and sat down at her desk, woke up her slow computer. He did a few minor adjustments to her network protocols, plugged it into the phone jack, and got a hard line into the CIA database.

Fuck it. He was going to find her. He requested an unauthorized list of her call log and went through the last hour manually - and of course there it was at the bottom, last call into her phone. A bar in Harlem.

She'd gone out to get her father, and she hadn't even waited on Rick to help.

Shit. She was in no shape to be heading out to Harlem while she still had a damn fever. She'd had only chicken soup in the last twelve hours. She couldn't even shove him out of her way, how was she going to carry her father out of a bar?

And in fucking Harlem.

Richard made a note of the address and shut down the link, knowing he'd be hearing from his father sooner rather than later about his untoward, civilian searches on an unsecure computer.

He didn't really care. He had to find Beckett.

\-----

His cell phone rang when he was only five steps out of her building, and he answered it hoping it was Beckett but knowing it was his father.

“Richard.”

“Yes, sir,” he sighed.

“An unauthorized request for a civilian’s phone records?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is this about? Did you stumble across something in New York?”

“Ah-”

“CIA doesn’t have jurisdiction in the States, but I can try to run interference if you’ve discovered something.”

“Actually-”

“You know I’m not interested in organized crime, Richard. If it’s terrorism, then fine, get your jollies out hunting down a cell, but if it’s organized crime - we don’t get into it. Leave it to the damn FBI.”

“Sir,” he interrupted. “It’s a civilian matter.”

“Civilian-” His father, Special Agent in Charge John Black - not his real name, of course - paused long enough for it to become uncomfortable. “You don’t have civilian matters.”

“True. I - yes, sir, you are correct. I’m helping someone out.” Shit, he’d searched for Beckett’s phone number, like a damn sign post pointing straight to her.

Sure enough. “Who is Katherine Beckett?”

“The person I’m helping,” he admitted.

“Helping.”

“Yes, sir.” He winced and tried not to look too suspect as he jogged down the street. She would have hailed a cab most likely, which meant he couldn’t ride the anonymous subway if he wanted to catch up with her.

“You’re helping a civilian named Katherine Beckett.”

“I have a week,” he defended, feeling like a five year old all over again. He cleared his throat and stepped to the curb, one hand raised for a taxi. “I have a week, sir. She’s having trouble with her - with her father, and that’s - it - I couldn’t say no.”

“For her father,” his own mused, as if that alone was one tie the man could respect. “Keep me apprised. I don’t want to see you get mired in entanglements. We need you in Dublin on Saturday.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The phone call ended and he pocketed the phone, deeply regretting having put Katherine Beckett on his father’s radar.

It didn’t sit right at all. He should have - kept it hidden. Should have kept her hidden.

Safe.

He’d have to downplay it with Black later; he’d have to find a way to keep himself entirely off book, go dark when it came to Beckett. He couldn’t - those two worlds should never collide.

A cab pulled up and he yanked open the door, slid inside, feeling unprotected and exposed.

He hated taxis.

\-----

Rick caught up to her in a bar in Harlem called ‘Dire Straights’ of all the fucking things. He stood in the the narrow entry and watched her for a second, the way she leaned her head into her hand, her elbow propped up on the bar, her eyes closed as she begged her father to leave with her.

His heart twisted and whatever indignation he felt at being left behind - however it rankled - it was washed away in the weary set of her shoulders and the desperation brimming in her eyes. And her father, her father was trying, it looked like. He was nodding to Kate and patting her arm, but he reached again for the tumbler.

Rick took it away.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been hustling towards them until he plucked the glass from her father’s fingers, but here he was, effortlessly drawing the man away.

“Jim,” he murmured. “It’s Rick. We met the other day.”

“Kate’s Rick,” Jim said slowly. He nodded but his eyes were on the drink. “Right, right. Fancy meeting you here.”

Kate didn’t laugh, so Rick tried not to either. But her father had been cracking a joke and he could see the amusement in the man’s eyes.

“Ah, sir, I don’t think Kate appreciated that one,” he said quietly. “But thank you - I would like to be hers.”

“You’re not mine,” she growled. “And Dad, don’t encourage him.”

“I’m...” Jim trailed off and then his eyes closed, and without warning his body went slack and he was dropping.

Rick caught him without a moment’s hesitation even while Kate was gasping and lunging for him. Rick caught her as well and held her up, his shoulder still under her father’s armpit to keep him on his feet. Kate regained her balance and untangled her foot from the rung of the stool, slid down to stand.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he said then. He couldn’t help it. He felt like a hurt little boy, abandoned at school with no one coming to pick him up. Shit. He had to get this together. “Never mind. Forget it. I know why. Let’s get him outside; I made the taxi wait for us.”

“You did?” she rasped. Her eyes cut to him and then away, moving to her father’s limp features, her lashes touching her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You said that already.”

“I meant it.” She reached out and her hand caressed the side of his neck. “This time I meant it.”

He went very still, her fingers falling away from his pulse, and then she shifted to put her shoulder on her father’s other side.

“No, Beckett. I got it,” he said. “You open the door for us.”

Her father was heavy and nearly out of it, but Rick could get this without a problem. Kate went ahead of them, glancing over her shoulder as if to make sure they were still there.

When they got outside, the night was yellow with street lights and yet still somehow dark. He stayed vigilant, always aware of the shadows and what might be shifting in them, but Kate seemed almost as out of it as her father.

“Beckett,” he said quickly, nodding to the taxi at the corner. It’d been the closest the driver could get.

She turned her head and blinked, her fingers splaying as if trying to catch something. “Is that the taxi?”

“Walk towards the light,” he laughed. “Come on, Beckett. Get going.”

Jim roused just as Rick nudged Kate down the sidewalk and then the three of them were making a strange procession towards the taxi. Kate opened the back door and leaned in to speak with the driver, and then Rick lowered her father in after her.

Inside the cozy, close confines of the back seat, Jim’s head rolled to land on Rick’s shoulder, the older man finally passing out. Rick lifted a hand to make sure he could still feel Jim breathing, and then he glanced to Kate.

She wasn’t exactly amused, but there was something there.

Relief, maybe.

He wished he could say she’d never have to do it alone again.

But he was leaving for Ireland at the end of the week.

\-----

"Stay, I got this," he told her, hauling her father down the hallway and leaving Beckett in the living room.

How many nights had she done this? How in the world had she managed it - half-supporting her father's weight as he dragged them both down? Rick didn't want to imagine it, but he couldn't help seeing glimpses of what her life was like, of how she struggled so hard and so fiercely against all these forces - the alcoholism, the love, the grief.

"Rick," Jim murmured, rousing now as he was pulled past the threshold and into his room. "Thanks, thanks. Don't let Katie..."

He sighed and eased the older man into the chair, bent down to take off his shoes. Jim reached past him with fumbling fingers, tried to do it himself.

"I got it,” Jim tried. “I can - don't let Katie do this. She shouldn't do this."

"She shouldn't have to, no," he agreed. Jim caught his eyes and nodded too, and now Rick saw how difficult it must be trying to get anywhere with her father. Jim knew what he was doing and he couldn't help it; he knew it but the grief was too much.

He sighed and worked the knots out of Jim's boots, dragged the shoes off. Jim was still trying to do it himself, trying to push on Rick's shoulder with a kind of limp resistance. Rick wondered what the man was like sober, but he could already see it - reserved, kind, polite, amused with his daughter's passion and proud of it.

Shit. "You know, she's doing this alone," Rick said quietly. He wasn't even sure the man would hear or understand or remember this in the morning. "You're both grieving but you're making her do it alone. Having to bear your share as well as her own."

"Don't let Katie do this," Jim sighed. "Don't let her. You can do it, Rick."

"I'm doing it tonight," he said. He gently stood and pushed on Jim's shoulder. "Sit back. Sleep it off."

"You'll do it. You don't let her do this."

"I'm not sure I could stop her," he muttered. "And I won't be here to help. You hear me? You're putting this on her. And she's doing it alone."

But Jim's eyes were closed and his fingers slack around Rick's arm. He sighed and unfolded the same blanket from the foot of the bed, covered her father with it.

"Don't talk to him like that," Kate said.

He turned around and found her in the doorway, her fists clenched.

"Don't talk to him about me, about this. This isn't for you to judge, to make comments-"

"Kate," he said, his stomach dropping out.

"Don't you dare make him promises and try to extract promises out of him. That's not fair. To anyone." She was a rigid line backlit by the lamp in the living room. It made her appear dark. A mystery. "It is not up to you."

"I know," he rasped. "I know. I just - I couldn't - not say something."

"It's not your place to say. You don't know him, you don't know me, you don't know my mother."

He nodded, agreeing, totally agreeing, his guts churning in sick desperation. "I don't. You're right."

"I want you to leave."

"No, please, Kate." He took a half step towards her. She didn't flinch, she didn't shrink, but something wary on her face reminded him of how brutal he'd been with her, how he'd pushed her up against the wall, against a door, how he'd nearly broken her arm in the grocery store. He stopped where he was. "Please, Kate."

"Katie, don't be rude to our guest," her father mumbled. "Came all this way."

Rick stood poised at the edge of the bed but he didn't dare cross the last few feet to her. He'd pushed her around and bullied her into letting him stay earlier and now it had to be her choice. It had to be her.

"I can't believe this," she whispered, her head turning. "Keep letting myself..."

Letting herself what? He squeezed his hands into fists and wracked his brains to think of what came next, what he might do to earn his place, but he had no idea. Training didn't cover this. Wanting someone so much.

Eastman had said once... when he had proposed to his girlfriend and she'd said yes, Eastman had done it because.. what was it? They were in a fight and he'd been... trying to apologize. Trying to apologize, that was it, and Rick had said, but you didn't do anything wrong, and Eastman had looked at him like he had no idea.

He'd had no idea.

Now he knew.

"Kate," he husked. "Kate, please. I'm - I'm sorry. I was out of line."

He didn't want this, didn't want her trying not to cry in front of him, wasn't looking to shatter her world, only to come alongside her and maybe walk with her on the way.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, deeply, and he meant it. He hadn't done anything wrong, but he was sorry.

Her shoulders were straight, body tense, but she looked at him. Her eyes met his. She didn't say a word, but he felt released from the trap of her father's room and he came to her, wrapped his arms around her and pressed her into him.

He closed his eyes and felt his own wild heartbeat rocking them both.

Too close. Too close to losing everything-

"You don't know what it's like," she whispered.

"I know, baby, I know." He touched his lips to her temple and her cheek, cradling her. "He's your father. He's your father and if you knew mine, you'd understand I could never..."

She finally snaked her arms around his waist and held on.

\-----

They sat side-by-side on her father's living room couch, Kate coughing every now and then, her skin hot where they touched. They kept the television on for company because neither of them knew what to say after that - or Richard didn't know what to say and she persisted in silence.

He hoped staying in the apartment she'd grown up in was comforting, although with those photos on the wall, he didn't see how that was possible. He didn't know how Jim Beckett could stand it, although he supposed that technically, Jim Beckett wasn't.

Some kind of melodrama was on the tv, something about this woman's husband coming back from the dead - highly improbable - but it made Beckett snuggle down into his side, her eyelids drooping. Snuggle wasn't the right word for what Beckett did, maybe lean? And even that seemed about as improbable as this show.

He wrapped his arm around her at a commercial break when he was sure she was asleep, and she released a little sigh into his chest, her mouth turning into him. The screen was throwing blues across her face, making her look even more sickly and pale than she was, but he found himself brushing her hair off her neck, letting his fingers run over her cheekbone.

Her hair was long, and usually in a bun, but when it was down like this, in a wild mess around her shoulders, it tugged at his guts. He couldn't help seeing how hopelessly young she was, and yet dealing with so much grief.

His eyes caught the television and he saw the profile of some young actress but the style was so seventies, the clothing outrageous and the hair dramatic, and he realized they were watching something in syndication - reruns - so it must have been Kate's go-to comfort. An old soap opera.

And she was sharing it with him.

The woman on screen gave a flourish with her hand and a toss of her red hair over her shoulder, her bottom lip trembling for the camera. Her husband was back; he was taking their son; she clutched the boy's shoulders and the acting was persuasive, lifelike, just the right amount of held back grief to make it believable.

He - no. No. For a second, he had thought he knew her.

Impossible. The woman had to be in her fifties by now - sixties, if this was thirty years ago. How could he possibly know her?

It was only a twinge of deja vu. He had it every now and again, a situation that flashed like his body and was gone again. He’d chalked it up to his training, since he’d been immersed into all kinds of situations and scenarios and been forced to handle the gamut of human indignities. Sometimes things, people, gestures struck him as having been done before.

Not Kate though. Nothing of her was old; she was something completely new.

Kate shifted and sighed and drew herself up into a ball on the couch, so Richard eased his own body behind hers, cradling her in his arms. It felt good like this, it felt good to make her comfortable even while she was sick, it felt good to have her heat at his chest and her breath skirting his jaw.

She'd wanted to stick close to her father just in case, but he thought maybe she'd wanted the familiarity of home - even if so much of it was lost to her now. He understood that - he had no concrete memories of his mother who had left him at five, though sometimes he caught that flash and it washed over him, the sensation of having a place to belong.

He liked belonging right here. She was falling asleep on top of him and her mouth was open now, drooling just a little, her breathing noisy. He kissed her temple and closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the arm of the couch.

He wondered, suddenly, what his father would say about this.

He wondered, even more strangely, what her father would say about his father.

And even though Jim Beckett was an alcoholic, he had a feeling the judgment would be pretty scathing.

\-----

Richard heard the man moving around in his bedroom; Kate had been asleep on his chest for the last four hours and she was deeply out of it. He waited, listening for signs of distress, but it sounded like the man was just using the bathroom.

Rick cupped her ear to keep the noise muffled, drew his other arm tighter around her so he could comb his fingers through her hair. She was a noisy breather when she was sick like this, her fever hovering somewhere just under concerning, and something about her so trusting it made him want to curl in around her.

“You’re here.”

Rick froze, and then he lifted his head to turn around and look at her father. Jim Beckett was haggard and ill-kempt, still in his clothes from the night out, but he looked marginally more sober than he had been.

“Yes, sir,” Richard said softly. “She’s sick. And worried about you. So we stayed.”

“Worried about me?” Jim gruffed. He rubbed a hand down his face, but his question wasn’t even convincing and he must have known that. He gave it up fairly quickly. “I’m a damn alcoholic.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered quietly.

Jim grunted and gave him a sour look, but he didn’t try to deny it. Why should Richard? It was the truth.

“You said she’s sick,” Jim said, lowering his voice. He shuffled to the well-worn easy chair, patted his hands on the armrests as he sat down. “Stomach, chest, heart?”

“A cough and fever,” Rick answered. “First sleep she’s gotten in a while. Four hours so far, though I expect her to wake coughing soon.”

Jim gave him a bleary look and then perked up; he looked like a new man when he was concerned over Kate, when he felt like he had something to offer. “I got stuff for that. Prescriptions the doc gave me. I must’ve given her the cold.” He leaned forward to stand up, but he swayed on his feet.

Richard put a foot down to somehow come to the man’s aid, but Jim waved him off, clutched the back of the easy chair.

“Sir?”

“Call me Jim. Not really a sir in this condition, am I?”

“Uh. Jim,” he answered, wondered if he was somehow agreeing with Jim’s assessment. “Thank you, sir, but my own father wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“Drilled manners into you?” Jim laughed. “Well, after a night like this, not much left to be polite about. Let me go get those perles.”

“Pearls?” Richard echoed, but the man had already shuffled back down the hallway. Pearls? He must have heard wrong. Kate was still sacked out over his chest, and he curled his fingers around her ear and stroked her hair back, over and over, hypnotic for them both.

“Here,” Jim said quietly. His voice was better-modulated now, like he’d regained some control of himself with his search. “In the bathroom medicine cabinet. These throat perles are amazing. They numb everything down to your lungs practically, suppress the coughing reflex.”

“Oh,” Rick murmured, lifting his hand to take the box. “Thanks. That will be really good for her.”

Just then Kate choked on a cough, jerked violently in his arms as she came up, hacking and sputtering. She leaned forward on her hands and knees, coughing into the couch like she was going to throw up.

And Richard realized she might, actually, be about to throw up. He shot to his feet and scooped her up, an arm around her torso and the other under her knees, hauled her down the hall towards the bathroom.

She croaked something and he had her falling in front of the toilet, seat already up, thank you Jim Beckett, just as Kate gagged.

It wasn’t really throwing up - it was just coughing so violently that everything rebelled. Kate reached out and smacked her hand against his thigh, shoved on him, and he backed away, unwilling to leave her but thinking maybe she needed some privacy.

And maybe, despite all the fantastic sex, they weren’t ready for this level of intimacy.

“I’ll go, but I’m right outside, Kate.” Rick slipped out of the bathroom and pulled the door only half closed.

Jim was standing in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, entirely sober now.

“Well, son, it’s like that?”

For a horrified moment, he thought Jim Beckett assumed he’d knocked her up.

And then he realized it was like that - he was taking care of Kate Beckett while she was sick, - Kate Beckett - the woman who was entirely too closed-off to allow anyone the chance to make it this long.

Richard crossed his arms and stood guard at the bathroom door, the package of throat perles still somehow gripped in his hand. “Yes, sir. Jim. It’s like that.”

“Huh.”

\-----

She opened the door and Rick spun around, reaching for her. She flinched and shifted backwards, pressed her hand to her chest as if that would keep her from coughing. She must have spotted her father over Richard’s shoulder, because she pushed past him to catch Jim’s elbow.

“Dad. You okay?”

“Am I okay? You’re the one gagging into my toilet.”

“Dad,” she huffed. “It’s just a cough.”

He drew his arm around her shoulders and dragged her against him; she was sick enough to actually fall into his side, stumbling and clutching at her father’s sweater.

“Look at the poor guy, Katie,” he said with a grin. “He’s got a huge wet spot on his chest from where you’ve drooled all over him.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned, closing her eyes.

Rick glanced down at his t-shirt and touched the spot, felt the grin pop onto his face. “Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

“This is mortifying. Dad.”

“I found some cough suppressant stuff the doctor prescribed for me, gave it to him. You should be able to sleep without waking up to cough.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, turning into him and kissing his cheek. Rick watched them with something hot burning in his chest, something that made his heart beat hard and not in the good way.

He didn’t know why.

“Sure, honey,” he murmured. “Least I can do. Quite literally.”

“Stop,” she said tightly. Richard saw this was a thing for him - Jim Beckett being self-deprecating as if that made it better somehow, as if acknowledging how much he was lacking as a father made up for it.

He wasn’t sure but he was getting the impression that Jim Beckett was more father than most, even drunk. He didn’t think Kate would understand what he meant, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to explain.

His own father wasn’t... like this.

“You should go home, Kate,” Jim said softly. “Sleep in your own bed. Let this man take care of you. I’m just going to pass out in an hour or so, be no good to you.”

Kate stiffened and drew away from her father, something wounded in her eyes that she quickly wrapped up. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Now, Kate, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you’re right. I need some sleep.” She backed up, but she didn’t head for Rick either. She released her father and moved down the hallway, away from them both, and Rick was the one who went after her.

Jim, strangely, sighed and turned around, went back to his own bedroom and shut the door.

There were things going on here that Richard didn’t know. He hadn’t realized just how much he didn’t know until right this moment. It wasn’t just her father’s alcoholism. There were other things - dark and dangerous things - that ran between them, that chained them together.

Her mother’s death.

She’d told him pieces and he knew the concept of her death, but he was seeing now that there was definitely more.

That crack about letting ‘this man take care of you’ as if some others had tried and failed, as if Jim himself hadn’t been able to get through his own daughter’s shell.

“Kate?” he called softly.

She turned at the front door, her coat in her hands and not even pulled on yet. Her face was like stone, but it broke when she coughed, burying her head in her coat.

He came up at her back and eased the coat out of her hands. She gave it up after a brief struggle, and Rick carefully manipulated her arms through the sleeves. She only let him, he knew, because she was coughing so hard that she couldn’t refuse.

He slipped her coat on over her shoulders and tugged a little, then he pulled the perles out of his pocket and held them up. “From your dad.”

Her eyes drifted up to the package, blinking slowly, so red and bleary and tired. She just looked tired of it all.

“I got you, Kate,” he said softly. “Come on. Let me take you home. I won’t try to take care of you - promise.”

She frowned at him, but even that wasn’t believable. Still, he knew what she needed from him.

“Nope, you can’t kick me out, baby. I got plans for you.”

Something turned on behind her eyes, like she was grasping at straws and so damn grateful for it too. Her mouth turned up and her fingers came to wrap around his wrist, squeezing. “I hear these things will make my throat numb - suppress my gag reflex.”

His mouth dropped open.

“Yeah,” she growled, her voice roughened by her cough. “You know you want it.”

“Holy fuck, Beckett.”

She grinned and tugged him out of her father’s door.

\-----

“I don’t know,” he said. He wanted to just - it was stupid - but he thought if he could just stroke his fingers in her hair and have her lay her cheek against him and drift off, that would be the best thing.

She hummed and tilted her head, her fever-bright eyes dropping down and down and down. “No, it’s good. Perfect,” she murmured. Her smile lifted. “Feels funny but like - for the first time in what seems like ages, I don’t want to claw my own lungs out of my chest.”

He finally sank down to the bed, still not sure about this. She was sitting cross-legged near the head of the bed and when he sat with her, she grinned and straddled his lap.

Richard grunted, closing his eyes.

“Yeah,” she murmured at his neck. “You know you want to. I bet it’s the first thing that came to mind when you found out these things suppress your gag reflex.”

“Actually,” he growled. “No. I was thinking you’d get some sleep finally.”

“I’m done with sleep. Who needs sleep? What I’d really like to do is go down on you.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. He kept his eyes closed because if he saw her face like that, he’d grip her by the hair and force her down.

Fuck, even thinking it was killing him.

“I can feel you, soldier,” she murmured, rocking slowly in his lap.

He sucked in a breath and clutched her arms, tried to will himself to hold her off.

“You’re already hard for me. Mm, these things are amazing. I think I haven’t even felt the urge to clear my throat. Can you imagine how deep you’ll go?”

“Holy. Shit,” he whispered, his eyes popping open.

She was so damn hot. And yeah, okay, he was an asshole because she was hot as in feverish, but she was touching him now, rubbing her knuckles into his zipper, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She stared at him with an intensity that made his balls tighten, and he couldn’t hold out.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Kate. I need - need you to-”

“Need me to touch you?”

He groaned and tilted his head back, felt it smack against the metal of her headboard. She laughed and stroked her fingers through his hair, cupped his face with her hands. He opened his eyes and tilted his chin down to see her looking at him, fever filling her eyes with something he might mistake for tenderness.

“How about you take your pants off, Rick?”

He blinked at her and she laughed again, a softer sound, less roughness to it, and she slid off his lap and touched his zipper.

“Or I can do it,” she murmured. Her cheeks were bright pink and her fingers were hot, and for some reason, he was completely paralyzed.

She unbuttoned his pants, tugged down his zipper. She was fondling him with her hands all of the sudden, straight past the waistband of his boxer briefs, and he croaked out a breath that hadn’t quite made it to his lungs in the first place.

“Kate.”

“Feel good?”

“Fu-uck.”

“I got you,” she hummed. “Lift your hips, baby, and we’ll get your pants off.”

He struggled to push off his jeans with her hands still on him, stroking and stroking, firm grips of her fingers that seemed to make his cock the hardest it had ever been.

“Kate.”

“Wanna get you so big,” she murmured, leaning in now and straddling him again. His bare thighs met the cotton of her leggings and he gripped her hips to find an anchor. “Since my throat is so numb. I want to make you as hard as you can get.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Kate, I can’t-”

“You can, baby,” she grinned. She leaned in and kissed him hard, sucked on his tongue a moment before trailing down to his jaw, tripping across his throat. He growled and she laughed at him. She nipped at his adam’s apple even as he was swallowing so that the tug of her teeth made his cock jerk in her hands.

“Mm, you like that? You like when I’m a little rough?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, me too,” she murmured. “Take my shirt off, Rick.”

He grunted and slipped his hands under her t-shirt, her skin so hot. She moaned and lifted up and he took her cue, wrestled her shirt over her head. She was biting her lip when he looked at her again, and he realized she was excited but a little nervous.

“Kate,” he rasped.

She looked up at him, her breasts caught by black cotton, and he couldn’t help cupping her, squeezing, before he popped open her bra. The front closure came apart, her breasts spilling out, pale and blue-veined and flushed at the tops with her fever.

“Kate,” he said again, remembering what he’d meant to say. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I sucked you off-”

“No,” he growled. “Like this. Where you - with your throat-” He had to stop, his cock so achingly hard that he had to grind his teeth to relieve the pressure.

“Not like this, no,” she murmured. “Deep throating?”

“Fuck, I’m gonna come in your hands if you don’t stop.”

She grinned and her breasts rose, nipples pebbled and stiff. He reached out for them, but she gripped his wrists and shook her head. “Like this.”

She brought his hands up to her head so that his fingers tangled in her hair and encompassed her skull. Her eyes were so bright, so brilliant with it, and he stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs.

Kate squeezed his wrists and turned her head, kissed the heel of his hand. Lightly, softly, and his cock pulsed with it.

“Relax, baby,” she murmured. “I got you now.”

She lowered her head and her thighs slid wider over his knees and he found himself guiding her down to his erection.

\-----

She was so hot. So hot around him. Her mouth had his cock on fire.

He gripped her by the head and tried to keep from choking her, his cock so thick and hard that he was going to come. Soon. Fucking soon. She was so tight and hot and so damn good at this.

She growled and his hips bucked, driving deeper into her mouth.

And then down her throat.

“Fuck!” he yelled, slamming his head back against the headboard and gripping her hair. “Fuck, fuck, Kate. Holy shit.”

She swallowed and he felt it against his cock, he felt it, and it was the hottest, most erotic thing that had ever been done to him. His balls were tight and twisted with the need to come and it was excruciating to keep his hips still.

She bobbed her head up and the sudden cool air across his erection made him hiss before she sank down again. He groaned and twisted his fingers in her gorgeous, soft hair, gritting his teeth to keep from fucking her face.

She swallowed again and he whimpered, totally out of his control, and then his hips came up again and she was moaning around him and he just kept thrusting, he couldn’t stop himself, he was pushing his cock into her mouth and down her throat and she was pressing her tongue into him and her throat was so damn tight and his cock was tingling like the skin was numb and his balls ached so badly he could scream.

He orgasmed with a bellow, hands fisted in her hair.

She was sucking on him, sucking it down, creating this wicked vacuum inside her mouth so that every last piece of his soul was pulled out of him and into her.

He collapsed back against the headboard and passed out.

\-----

“You laughing?” he mumbled, rousing from a white-bliss dream that turned out not to be a dream at all. She’d swallowed his cock.

“Not at you,” she hummed. “Felt strange. Going down.”

“Holy. Hell. I’m dying.”

She laughed then and crawled up his body, arranged herself over him. He realized she’d gotten naked at some point, pulled her leggings off, the underwear gone too. He slowly dragged his hands up to embrace her but they landed clumsily, one at her shoulder blade, the other at her ass.

“Never done that before,” she smiled. He only knew she was smiling because he could feel it against his bare chest.

“Never done... oh, shit, Beckett. You’ve never-”

“Let someone come in my mouth,” she said. As if it was nothing.

“I’m honored,” he said gravely, opening his eyes to tilt his head down and look at her. She laughed but he was fucking serious. “I lost control of it; I should have warned you-”

“Oh, baby, I knew,” she laughed again. “That felt so good. You wouldn’t even believe. Next time though, I want to see if it’s just as good without my throat all numb. When I can feel you as more than just width. Actual fullness. That would-”

“If you don’t stop talking, right now, I’m going to cry.”

She laughed harder this time and lifted her head, grinning up at him as she propped her chin on his chest. She was humid between her legs; he could feel her damp heat against his belly and he wanted to do something about it.

“Turn around, Beckett.”

“What? Why?”

“I told you I had plans for you,” he murmured. He twirled his finger in command and she rolled her eyes and dug her elbows into him as she turned.

He cupped her breasts and squeezed.

Her hips rocked up and she gave a little gasp. “No, no. Wait. Not like this.”

“How then?” he rumbled. “Anything you want, baby. Anything.”

“I want to see you,” she mumbled, sitting up and turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Put your hand down between my legs and let me ride your fingers so I can watch your face as you feel me.”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Fuck, you have the best ideas.”

She grinned and slid to one side, then straddled his lap again, widening her thighs in invitation. He put his hands on her legs rather inelegantly, skimmed his fingers up and down her skin as she watched him studying her. He lifted his gaze to meet hers and she smiled, encouragement and some small amount of narcotics there as well, he had to admit.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “You make me hurt.”

Her eyebrows knit together and he shook his head - not what he meant really. Just that he ached all over when he looked at her. He just ached, and even as he touched her inside thighs, his cock was already beginning to rush with blood, eager for any part of her he could get.

He dragged her hips closer and wrapped an arm around her neck, took a slow kiss from her mouth. She tasted like sex, like him; she tasted like she was his.

Rick slid his hand to her thigh and shifted it higher, made her knee come up at his shoulder so he could touch her. She moaned and planted her foot against the mattress, rocked herself into him.

He dragged his nails down her inside thigh to her groin, felt her shiver hard over him. She nipped his tongue and sucked more of his kiss from him, gentled again to that loose rhythm of mouths. He skated around her hip and to her ass, his fingers caressing her and flirting with her sex.

She was moaning now, these tight and hot little things that sounded almost like whines; she rocked into his chest and tried to grind out her pleasure on his hip bone. But he fingered her ass a little and dipped down to her sex once more, slid around in that slick wetness.

“Rick,” she groaned. “Stop fucking around and fuck me already.”

“You said you wanted to ride my hand and watch my face,” he murmured. His cheek was against hers, scraping roughly every time she clutched him harder. “Gotta sit up for that, love.”

“I can’t keep my - my eyes open,” she gasped.

“Sit up, Kate. I want you to watch me. Watch me bring you off.”

She groaned and pushed off his chest, her arms trembling, her lids half-closed. She blinked and struggled to keep them open, her breasts riding high, and he leaned in and licked one of those pink-fevered nipples.

She gasped and her knees squeezed his hips; he cupped her between her legs and pushed his fingers inside her in that moment.

“Whoa, fuck,” she cried out. Her body shuddered around his hand and her head bowed forward.

“Lift up, Kate. Look at me.”

She groaned and lifted her head, her eyes roving until they fixed on his. Fuck, she was dazzling. She was sex-crazed and deep in the middle of her pleasure, burning for him, her hips doing these wicked little swivels over his hand.

“That’s it, love. Watch me. How fucking erotic I think it is to see you like this.”

She panted as he stroked his fingers inside her, her eyes dropping only to snap back to his. He was nearly taking all of her weight on his chest, with her hands planted at his pecs and her pelvis grinding away at his hand. He reached up and caught the back of her neck and she groaned, her body trembling.

She liked that.

He fished his fingers inside her, stretching her, and then he pushed in one more, making her take three of his fingers. She groaned and lifted up on her knees like she was trying to get away from him, but instead she sank down and up again, riding his hand now like she’d asked.

He pumped his fingers into her lazily, his own cock throbbing now, and just when she’d gotten into a good rhythm that was about to make her come, he pulled out.

She moaned and dropped forward on her hands, her eyes opening to his and everything about her begging for it. “Please. Please, baby, please-”

He slicked his cock with her arousal and thrust himself home.

She grunted and shattered apart, writhing over him, squeezing and sucking the life from him until his own sharp orgasm spilled out of him as well.

She collapsed against his chest and curled in, both of them sweat-soaked and smeared with arousal, but her eyes were already closing, her body going slack.

She was falling asleep.

Rick reached down with his toes and snagged the sheet, slowly drew it up over their bodies. He lowered himself down, taking her with him, until his head was against the pillow.

She was out.

Her mouth was open against his sternum; he was expecting another wet spot.

\-----

She slept without waking once.

Richard was pretty proud of himself for two reasons - one, he'd managed to take care of her, and two, he'd found a way to make taking care of her kinky enough that she didn't seem notice that was what he'd done. He was learning; he really was.

Be cool , she'd told him. Well, he wasn't cool, but he could put on a good show if it meant he got to have her.

After six hours of lying in bed under her and dozing off and on himself, he carefully arranged her on the mattress and slid out of bed. He pulled up the covers and made sure she wouldn't get cold, and then he got a quick shower. He dressed and debated breakfast. He didn't think she'd appreciate breakfast in bed, nor the sentiment behind it, but he could make an extra helping for himself and offer it to her when or if she finally woke and came out.

Rick wasn't about to leave the apartment again after what he was beginning to term the Cough Meds Disaster of '02, and the chicken soup was more a lunch and dinner thing rather than breakfast food, so he hunted through her fridge and cabinets looking for something he could make. She had eggs that looked like they'd been there a while, but he couldn't imagine how eggs went bad, so he figured he'd dump a bunch of stuff into the pan and see what he could omelette from it.

There were three leftover potato cakes and he'd heat those up for her if she came out of the bedroom. But for now, it was going to be eggs with special ingredients.

He did a careful inventory and came up with a smattering of choices: maraschino cherries, chocolate chips, leftover vegetable lo mein, and a couple slices of cheddar cheese he pulled off an uneaten half a sandwich. He was used to making do with rations, and he thought he could make something out of it. The cherries and chips would keep it sweet and the Chinese would give it crunch, and vegetables were supposed to be healthy.

Richard set the burner on low and added a little water since there wasn't any milk or butter; he cracked six eggs - all she had left in the carton - and he whisked it with a fork. When the yellow stuff had just begun to firm, he picked out the carrots and peas and cucumber from the vegetable lo mein, then went ahead and dumped in some of the noodles as well. Thicken it up.

He added the cherries and inhaled their too-sweet tang, smiled at how it reminded him of Kate. Not that she smelled like cherries - no, she wasn't at all maraschino cherries - but that impression of the actual fruit, how ripe and appealing and how surprisingly sour, how lip-twisting it could be. He liked cherries, the fruit he'd picked from the tree in the backyard of a Turkish home. Aysa had kept the tree just for him - Turkey was the top grower of cherries - but she couldn't stand their capricious natures. One time sweet, one time sour, and no call for why.

That was Kate. A mystery in a blood-red package, sour and tart one bite and then soft and sweet the next.

He put the chocolate chips in last; he knew enough not to burn them, and the scent of breakfast filled her kitchen appealingly.

He was proud of himself. He hadn't known he was capable of taking care of someone. He'd never had the chance to try. But he liked her and he liked how wild she was in bed, and so it seemed fitting that he take care of her during this chest cold. Like taking a car to get the oil changed - it only made sense that he would help her get better.

By the time breakfast was ready, Kate still hadn't woken, so he dished up a plate himself and put the other in the microwave to keep it warm as long as possible. He took a big bite of his omelette and grinned through the flavors, pleased by it. He'd done a good job; he'd made breakfast. And it wasn’t vegan spicy curry or some other diet restriction; it was normal food.

He really wanted her to wake up now, share it with him. Maybe he could carry his plate into the bed with her and just... eat while he watched her? Maybe she'd wake and roll into his hip and ask for a bite?

Huh. No, probably-

"What is that?"

The harsh rasp of her voice made him startle; Richard turned and saw Kate standing in the hallway, on her feet but obviously still tired.

"Did you burn something?" she croaked.

"Burn - no. No, I made myself some breakfast. Want some?" he asked, as cool as he could be. Totally cool.

She padded closer and he saw she'd pulled on those black leggings and an old NYU sweatshirt. She'd gone to NYU? Right, of course. Her father was here in the city, a lawyer, good money, so of course she had. Her mother had been murdered... her freshman year, he calculated quickly.

Shit.

"What - are those eggs?" she said.

He handed her his own plate and rose to pull the other from the microwave. "Try it. I'll get another plate."

She settled gingerly in his own seat, hunched over, so thin looking, so small. She picked up his fork and stabbed tentatively at a piece of scrambled egg. "Rick... what's in this?"

"It's an omelette. So - you know - stuff I found."

"That's not really how you're supposed to do omelettes," she muttered.

He quickly pulled the second plate out of the microwave before she could see he'd already had it made, and then he sat down across from her so he could watch her face as she tried it.

She stuck the bite in her mouth and her face went white. She choked and dropped her fork, pressed her hand over her mouth, her eyes flying up to his in horror.

He froze.

She blinked fast and dropped her eyes, swallowed with effort, and then she erupted into a fit of coughing. She coughed so hard that he jumped up and filled her a glass of water, set it at her place. Kate drank it down greedily and held up a finger, ran back down the hall to her bathroom.

She shut herself inside, but he could still hear her hacking up a lung as she coughed.

He scraped his fork through the eggs on his plate, ate slowly as he listened to her getting herself back together. When she came back out into the hall and approached him once more, he saw she'd thrown water over her face and looked a little pink.

"Are you okay?" he asked, standing as she got to the table. "You need more cough medicine."

"No, no." She waved him to sit. "What - um - what was in that?"

Oh. "The eggs?" he said, bewildered. "That made you cough?"

She winced and sat down in front of the plate.

He felt horrified, snagged her plate to take it away from her. "Oh, God. Kate - I didn't - it's just eggs and cheese and - cherries? Oh, and I found some vegetables to make it healthy and the chocolate chips because everyone loves chocolate. You don't like chocolate?" he finished in a rush.

She stared at him a moment and her lips twisted, but she shook her head. "I - no, I love chocolate. I just wasn't - expecting the crunch." She grabbed the plate back from him and curled her hands around it, cradling it to her chest. The look she gave him was... something. Soft. The sweet cherry. "You made me breakfast, Rick?"

He nodded before he could think it through, his head bobbing a yes even as he cursed himself for being stupid.

But she smiled and glanced down at her eggs. "Thank you."

And then she ate at the table with him, quiet, wordless, just the two of them together as the sun came in through her apartment windows.

She looked tired, but oh, she looked beautiful.

\-----

She banished him from the bedroom, and when that didn't seem to work on him - maybe because he kept pacing the hallway and fiddling with things and snooping through her living room? - she told him to get out of the apartment for a while. She was still so tired that he thought it would be a good idea, but he didn't know how to ask her not to leave him behind.

He made himself scarce, but to preempt a phone call that would have her grabbing clothes and the first taxi over to her father's place, Rick went there first.

He knocked a few times, got no answer; he waited, timing it on his cell phone to be sure he gave the man plenty of opportunity to struggle out of bed, and then he went in. He found the door locked but easily picked, and he stepped into the dark living room.

He scared the shit out of Jim Beckett in the hallway; the man startled and fell back to the wall, rattling pictures and causing one to drop to the floor. Richard winced and scooped down to pick it up, saw the glass had broken.

"Rick?" Jim rasped. He sounded about as healthy as Beckett.

Richard folded the frame into his chest and reached out for Jim's shoulder. "Sir. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "Why are you - how did you get in here?"

"Kate gave me the key," he lied. "She's sick and I thought I'd check on you. Ease her mind."

"She's... I'm fine. Fine, son. You should go."

But Richard smelled the alcohol. "Is it that you don't want to stop or that you can't?" he said, the words burning in him. "Sometimes I think it's that you don't want to. Because then you'd feel it, all the time, that grief."

"You have no idea," Jim answered. He moved to turn away from Richard, but he couldn't seem to coordinate his actions. It was early yet, only seven, and if the man had been planning on going in to work, Richard couldn't imagine he'd get away with it like this.

"I have no earthly idea," he agreed. "But I've led a squad of men on a suicide run, and we all knew it, so there are some things I do understand."

"You... were in the service?"

"Am," he said, the best he had. "I'm deployed at the end of the week, and when I'm gone, Beckett's back to being on her own. Kate. Kate's alone with it. You're no help."

"I'm no help at all," Jim sighed. "And she's no help to me."

Richard flinched, struck by that. "She's been the one picking you up from bars, hasn't she? She's been the one making sure you get home without killing yourself - or someone else. You'd rather die, is that it?"

"She won't let go of it," Jim muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face. He made a noise that was grief and frustration and pushed past Richard for the kitchen. "She just won't damn well let it go. Her mother is dead. Murdered, yes. I'm sure you know the story. If you know her at all, then - well, she can't go a day without talking about it, dwelling in it. She has the crime scene photos, the autopsy - the autopsy photos. Oh, God."

Jim sank down against the wall, not even making it out of the hallway, and he pressed his hands to his head.

Richard didn't try to help him; he didn't understand the currents swimming in the pool of that relationship. The ocean of what was between them.

"I don't know what she's done to you," he said finally. "But you're not supposed to do this to her."

Jim's eyes lifted and even though the watery red of alcohol was there, so was the man. "I know. I know it. I just don't know how to un-know everything else."

Richard suddenly wished, fiercely, that he had made such an impact on someone that they wanted to un-know him. Had he ever inspired that in anyone - ever? No one remembered him; no one was supposed to remember him. He was the cog in the machine; he was the anonymous face no one could later identify or explain. Leave no trace behind.

He was nothing. He was trained to be nothing.

Johanna Beckett had been - was - grieved over. Missed so achingly that she was even now ruining her family. Dividing them.

"Sir," he started slowly. He didn't know what he was going to say, only that something had to be said. "Jim. My - I don't know my mother. I don't know my father either, for all that he raised me. What I do have I’ve managed in... I was going to say I've gotten it in the last two days. But that's not true either. I don't have Kate. I have nothing. And standing on this side of nothing, I wish I were you."

Jim shot him a startled, slack-jaw look and sank back against the wall once more.

Richard felt uncomfortable. He shouldn't have come. He had only wanted to be sure her father wouldn't call her away, leaving Richard homeless and wandering the streets for her, but instead there had been this.

He didn't do... this.

"You don't want to be me," Jim sighed. "But thanks for the pep talk. I've got to get to work."

"I think you should call in sick," Richard grimaced. "They'll smell it. They'll see it on your face - the ruin of the morning."

Jim twisted around, gave him a funny look. "You a writer, Rick?"

"No, sir. Just - telling you the truth. Doesn't seem like you'll hear it from her any more."

"She doesn't tell me the truth - she doesn't tell me anything. We don't talk."

He didn't comment; there was no way he was going to disparage her, even though he could see it - he'd already felt it himself, the way she could ice a man out.

"Fine. I'll call in sick."

Oh. Shit. Beckett had a job.

Oh, no. He might have - she might already be gone. No wonder she'd kicked him out of her apartment.

"I have to - I have to go," he muttered and headed for the door.

\-----

He was supposed to be cool.

But when he found her apartment empty again, he just lost it. His cool. He lost it.

He wasn’t fucking cool. He’d been cool, once; that had been him to a T. He was Mr. Cool and she’d obviously been attracted to that, but it was gone. Cool was gone.

What the hell was she thinking? She was feverish and had barely gotten a full night’s rest. But she’d gone to work, he knew, because her uniform and utility belt were gone. Those ugly boots were gone. She was gone.

She needed sleep and probably some kind of vitamin C cocktail and to not be chasing perps through Manhattan’s seedier alleyways.

He was supposed to be cool. He wondered if repeating it over and over would actually make it so. She would annihilate him if he showed up at her precinct. Oh, shit, even imagining it was making him break out in a cold sweat. What she’d do when she saw him striding through the rough swarm of NYPD officers, pushing aside Mike Royce who wouldn’t care enough about her anyway to make her go home.

She’d be livid. She’d never fuck him again.

He still had the impression of her hot mouth around his cock burned into his body, and he wanted to find out - just as she’d said - whether she liked it better when she could feel him.

He also wanted her to sleep; he really - he needed that with a ferocity that scared him, how much he needed to unbreak her, to hold her pieces together until she could find the glue. He was only now beginning to see - due to her father’s blunt honesty - just what darkness she was struggling through, how valiantly she was forging on, completing the mission despite the setbacks.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever known someone as fiercely brave as Katherine Beckett.

He couldn’t do it to her, couldn’t be the asshole that went up to her work and bullied her around like Royce had done to her here at her apartment. He was better for her than Royce. Royce had let her fucking faint on the job, Royce had apparently mounted up with his trainee rather than send her home where she belonged.

Richard wasn’t leaving her alone. He wouldn’t be so uncool as to show up in her face, but he wasn’t leaving her without back-up.

He was going to have to shadow her. He was going to have to do some spying.


	7. Chapter 7

He picked her up just outside the precinct and followed her and Royce on their rounds. They checked in at a convenience store, drove the squad car to a children’s playground to camp out for a few hours, walking the block.

She coughed through most of it. Richard could see her shoulders hunched against the wind, her elbow up to cover her mouth, her other hand resting against the butt of her gun.

He liked that; it called to him. Her readiness even in the midst of her cold.

Could it be pneumonia? When did that happen? He needed to check on this stuff, do his prelim background work.

She and Royce got back into the car and Beckett turned her head, scanned the long line of vehicles, but she didn’t see him. He gave the squad car its lead time and then he revved the motorcycle’s engine and pulled out after them.

His visor was black matte, his helmet unadorned, his coat buttoned up against the sheer cut of the wind. He kept his eyes on the car, but he also had to be wary of New York drivers; they didn’t tend to see him, which was - precisely - his goal.

He stopped at a red light, the squad car moving on without him, and then suddenly their top lights screamed on and the car accelerated with a roar of hemi engines. Rick checked to the right and left, gauged the traffic’s flow. He saw his moment, the car on his left slowing to turn, the oncoming on the right measured out.

It would be close, but he could do it.

Rick ripped the engine and pushed the recently-bought motorcycle out from behind the Toyota Celica and down the white lines. He checked again, kept his eyes on the traffic, kept watching, looking, measuring it, and then he roared into the intersection, zipped around the oncoming car, and across to the other side.

He powered up the street and down two more blocks before he caught up to Beckett’s patrol car, gripped the handlebars and lowered his head to settle in for a wild ride.

\-----

He followed her all afternoon, throughout her entire shift, 911 calls and lunch with the car running even though she chucked most of her sandwich in a trash can. He shadowed her on the bike, had to get down and shed the helmet, stash it inside Central Park to blend with the crowd as she and Royce did a thorough sweep.

She was coughing a lot - she coughed all through the park and had to stop, leaning a hip against a park bench as she tried to catch her breath. Mike Royce was talking to her, saying something, and she was ignoring him, turning her head away to cough.

For a split second, he thought she’d seen him. He acted naturally, kept walking, heading down a path towards a group of trees, checking his phone as if it was absorbing. When he slid his gaze back to her, she was scanning the trees with the back of her hand to her mouth as if pausing.

Her whole body caved in as she coughed again, obviously fighting against it, and then she and Royce went back to the car.

They had one more 911 call - a domestic disturbance that had Rick reaching for his own gun - but Kate Beckett was good. She talked the woman down, took the can of wasp spray the woman was wielding as a weapon, and then arrested her and put her in the back of the car.

She knew how to talk; he was impressed. He hadn’t thought that was a resolvable issue, but she’d done it.

He followed them back to the precinct and settled the motorcycle just down the block. It was late night and deep with darkness, that strange hour between dinner parties and club hopping, the change of shifts within the city itself.

Rick took off the helmet and rubbed his jaw, wincing at the ache in his ribs. He couldn’t remember if he’d gotten his requisite four hours of sleep, and he knew for sure he hadn’t taken his supplements in a while. He wasn’t a damn twenty year old any longer; he had to stick to the program.

But those fucking pills were at the CIA crash pad and not here. And he wasn’t willing to leave.

He wondered if he showed up now, at the end of her shift, and just... took her to dinner, if that would be okay? Could he come alongside her as she left the precinct in her bundled up coat and shapeless black pants, and could he just walk her to some diner, sit her down in a booth and feed her french fries and fatty hamburgers?

He wanted to. He just wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Fuck it. He’d been good all shift, keeping away, letting her have it. Being cool. He could be cool and still show up at the end, be subtle about it. He could do this.

Richard hung the helmet from the handlebar, locked down the centerstand, and carefully crossed the street. He knew she’d have paperwork for a while with that arrest, but he could skulk around, figure out how to look natural when she did come out.

Just that moment, the door opened and Beckett slid out, almost like she’d been pushed, and he wondered if Royce had made her leave. Finally. She looked exhausted, lines around her mouth and eyes, and she was shaking with a cough.

He stood on the sidewalk and his chest filled up with the sight of her; it was an effort to hang back, wait for her to come down the sidewalk. She turned away from him, her fingers fumbling at the bottom of her coat trying to zip it up, and so Richard hustled forward.

He stepped up smoothly right beside her, resisting the urge to take her by the elbow and prop her up, the deeper urge to wrap her in a hug and hold on. She startled but caught herself before she lost her rhythm, kept walking.

“Rick,” she said. Her voice was barely there, mostly grit and gravel rather than words.

“Kate.” He didn’t offer more.

She took the bait. “What’re you doing out this way, soldier?”

He gave a relieved grin. “I got hungry. And we all know what a crap chef I am.”

She chuckled but the sound was strangled by a cough. She actually leaned against his arm as she coughed, as if for support, before straightening up again. “Yeah,” she croaked. “You eat at all though?”

“Huh. Forgot,” he admitted. He had forgotten, so busy watching her not eat instead. “You?”

“Half a sandwich on the go.”

“Thought maybe there’d be a good place you’d know about down here,” he admitted. “You picked the Jewish deli - you seem to be good at knowing what I’d like.”

“Oh, I know what you like,” she hummed.

He cracked another smile and she smirked, but it was kind of ruined by the rattle of her cough.

“You know of a place or what?” he prompted.

She looked so worn out, but he knew she wasn’t going to let him know it. “Yeah,” she said eventually. “I do. Remy’s. It’s burgers - and not much else. You’re either going to love it or you’ll hate it.”

He gave a mournful sigh and wrapped his hand around hers, spoke quickly to keep her from noticing the move. “I used to be a vegetarian before you, Beckett.”

“Thank goodness you met me,” she said, lips crooked in her smile. “What would you have done?”

“I have no idea,” he answered, and he knew he was too earnest, but he couldn’t help it.

She didn’t shake off his hand.

\-----

She led the way to the burger place and it turned out to be something of an old world bar - dark wood booths mixed with a kitchen and the requisite diner counter. The sign said seat themselves and Kate didn't even pause, just headed for the back and a booth that seemed to take up more room than was strictly necessary.

It was a cop place - he saw uniforms headed to the counter to pick up a brown bag; they joked with the waitress who rang them up, but he didn't see money exchange hands. On a tab or on the house, one of those, and then the waitress twirled a pen between her fingers and pigeon-walked towards them. She didn't particularly recognize Beckett, but she was friendly to the uniform Kate was wearing.

Rick eased into the booth's rigid wooden spine and tried not to appear too honored, but he was. She'd taken him someplace where she might run into coworkers, a place she'd have to come back to and answer questions, as if she was unfolding some neat corner of her life and allowing him to step behind the curtain.

She ordered for him, a grilled pepper stuffed cheeseburger - it sounded atrocious - and a large plate of fries and then waters for them, but there was hesitance to her voice that made Richard think there was something else.

The waitress supplied the answer quickly enough. "Want a milkshake to go? That's usually what you get, right? I seen you 'round."

"I do," Kate said politely, but she shot him a look as if supposing to find judgment. "Okay, two milkshakes. To go."

"Flavor," the waitress clipped out.

"Chocolate," Rick answered quickly. She said she loved chocolate, right?

She tilted her head, a wrinkle to her nose. "And mine strawberry."

Oh. She loved chocolate but a strawberry milkshake? That seemed so... pink of her. She was unzipping her coat and shedding it behind her, working her fingers in the collar of her turtleneck. Red scratches marred her jaw, making him think she'd been uncomfortable in her own clothes all day.

"I didn't think to bring you any meds," he sighed. "I should've-"

"I'm fine," she said, dropping her hands to her lap, disappearing. She squirmed and then growled something inelegant, sounding like that training officer of hers, and she reached down to yank the coat away from her. She shoved it away and Richard reached over the table to take the offensive garment out of her sight, pushed it next to him on the bench seat. The coat was still unnaturally warm from her body and the scent of honey cough drops rose up beside him.

"You have cough drops?" he asked. She'd popped them surreptitiously if she had.

"Hm," she hummed, though it sounded like she was trying to clear her throat. "In my coat pocket. But they'll make the burger taste funny. I don't want one."

He smiled because she'd thought he was telling her to take one when he'd only been curious, and look how easily that had gone over. "No, I know. I was thinking tylenol at least. Two of those cold pills."

"Huh. Yeah. Maybe so." She shrugged like she wasn't quite following his line of thought. "The fries are the best here. And the milkshakes... " She closed her eyes and hummed, definitely humming this time. "Milkshake will feel good."

"Your throat hurt, love?"

"Yeah," she sighed. She had leaned back in the booth and he heard raindrops scatter along the windows, as if tossed by some unseen hand. The rain began in earnest, thicker and more directed, and the bar seemed to grow more intimate by the darkness of storm clouds.

He wished he had sat on the same side of the booth with her. But he leaned in against the wall, crushing her coat so that the scent of honey and her skin drifted up to him, and the chill of the rain outside permeated slowly. He touched two fingers to the glass, watched the drops skim and shiver, and then Kate sighed.

"I like it here." He heard I love it here in her voice, rough as it was, and he smiled.

"With the rain it seems..."

"Like Hemingway could write a novel at this booth," she murmured. Her eyes slipped open, dark pools absorbing the reflection of rainlight. "Never mind. That sounds stupid."

"Hemingway was a soldier too," he said. "In Italy. He was wounded."

"Went to Paris with Hadley. I liked her best."

"Who is Hadley? I thought it was Fitzgerald."

She laughed, her eyes coming alive again. "His wife. First - and best - wife. He was an idiot, but he knew how to write."

"I've read some."

"Which ones?"

"The one about Italy," he gave, shrugging. "And a short story about the hills being like elephants. He has guns and hunting and war. Seems like he understands it."

"He and his first wife, Hadley, both got colds on their honeymoon," she mused. Her fingers were at her throat, rubbing those red spots where her turtleneck was chafing her skin. "She got him back to Europe; she had the money. He had - himself, I guess."

"Not egalitarian, like you'd hope," he offered. He was lost; she had moved on to a deeper understanding of Hemingway than he held. She had gotten into a life and he was always about the surface details. Faking it.

"He was a womanizer and his female characters are all flat," she grunted. "Foils for his male protagonists. He had no idea."

"Do you write?" he asked, intrigued by how the fever seemed to take her over, leave her helpless to her own words.

"Write?" she startled. "I read."

"Oh. Right." He had no idea why he'd asked that. "Everything of his? You took a class, didn't you? I can tell. You know a lot."

"An American Novel class in college once."

"Once?" That had a demarcation to it, that 'once' - as if there were a line, a Before and After which- Oh, right. She’d been a freshman when her mother had died. "Before she was killed," he answered his own question.

Her eyes flickered over the rain on the window and then finally to him. "When did you read Hemingway?"

"In service," he answered obliquely. "In Ireland. Before."

"Same place you're going back?" She seemed to want to cover up the admission of her intelligence regarding Hemingway, as if she'd been told before it wasn't cool.

"Same," he said. Close enough. "I liked the girl in Farewell to Arms."

"You've outed yourself," she said, lifting a slim eyebrow. It was supposed to be smooth but she looked too tired to pull it off. "The 'girl' in that book was nothing more than a mirror."

"Oh. You're saying I think of her as a 'girl' because Hemingway doesn't know how to write a real woman."

"Yes."

He grinned. "I like you too. Not a girl, are you?"

Her mouth fell open, though to be fair to Kate she couldn't possibly be breathing all that easily.

"You'd be Hadley," he said. "More than a mirror."

She flushed bright red, and he saw he'd hit on something she liked. She really liked Hemingway, despite hating him on some level, and he was reminded again that she was only twenty-two years old. A nineteen year old freshman when her mother had died and altered her life so irrevocably.

And then the waitress came back with their burgers, making some colorless remark about the rain, as if rain itself was unremarkable but the act of it falling against the windows outside was worth mentioning.

Richard wished, again, more fervently, he'd sat beside her in the booth.

\-----

The stuffed burger was heaven.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” he groaned.

She laughed, dropping her own cheeseburger, covering her mouth with her hand as it fell apart into a coughing fit. He didn’t understand the amusement; these burgers were amazing.

“This is awesome,” he said, shaking his head. The rain had tapered off once more, but the sky was permanently bedraggled, and Beckett coughed more than she breathed. He was going to ditch the bike and grab them a cab to get back tonight; she needed to be in bed as soon as possible.

“The best thing you’ve put in your mouth?” she said finally, scraping it out.

He paused - her innuendo had actually caught him by surprise - and he grinned slowly from behind the burger. “Ah. Well. You taste better. You’re right.”

She choked on it, coughing again, but the laughter slipped tears down her eyes as well. She buried her face in the crook of her elbow and gasped for breath, waving him off when he leaned over and patted her back.

“You okay?”

She wheezed and lifted her head, pressing her hand over her eyes. “I’m okay. Just - um - thank you. I hadn’t been fishing for compliments.”

“No?” he said, watching her as she struggled to breathe through her mouth. “It seemed to beg for it.”

“Oh, shit,” she groaned, laughing again. “Beg for it.”

So much laughter out of her. Maybe it was all the cold meds she’d been drugged with last night, but she was highly amused tonight. Highly amusable.

“I did make you beg for it,” he murmured. “And you do - actually - taste erotic as fuck.”

She startled as if they hadn’t just been talking about that, and she waved him off. He went back to his burger, another big bite of absolute divine and glorious taste, and she sipped slowly at her water as she got it under control.

And then she jumped right into it, shocking him again. She lowered her voice and rested her cheek against her hand, elbow propped on the table. “You taste pretty good, too. Liked it more than I thought, right down my throat like that. Something dark and dangerous about it that makes me...”

John Richard Black - international man of mystery, CIA operative - was entirely astounded by one Kate Beckett. She was talking about swallowing him even while she licked her tongue over her bottom lip to catch a string of cheese from her burger.

He might die.

“Yeah?” he rasped finally. “I like that you like it.”

“You suddenly got so eloquent, soldier.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, cleared his throat to come up with something better. He was a guy used to language, had seen more than she might ever think humanly possible, but he was also trained to keep it contained, to be polite, to blend with civilized society.

He wasn’t used to sitting in a booth in a public restaurant and speaking aloud exactly what he liked, what got him off, what made him lose control.

“When you moan,” he found himself saying. “When you moan and your throat arches, Kate, I just... I could go forever. I could have you forever.”

She responded. He saw it flame in her, saw the way she soaked in every word. It meant more to her than she wanted it to, he knew that, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The way to win Kate Beckett was through the connection of their bodies, that intensity of connection. She couldn’t deny it.

“You feel so good inside me,” she said then. Her burger was still cradled in both hands but hovering over the plate, her eyes on him instead. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. Have me forever.”

She wasn’t smiling; it was’t a smirk, more like an invitation. It was that deep intensity, that swell of need that touched something else entirely. It was more than he knew, more than he’d expected, and it laid them both bare.

He didn’t look away. “I’d never not want you,” he rasped. And it wasn’t a line. “Love, I’d spend my whole time watching you sleep just for the chance to come back next weekend, next holiday, next month, and have you all over again.”

Just like that, Kate shut down.

He didn’t know what he’d said. Hadn’t they just been talking about going forever? Hadn’t she wanted him so hard inside her? And now she was sitting back and dipping her eyes to her burger, avoiding that statement.

That moment, that connection, gone.

She focused on her burger and didn’t say another word.

And now it was impossible to get up and move his plate across the table, sit beside her and feel her warmth next to him. He’d never be able to cross to her side like this.

\-----

He wouldn’t let her carry her milkshakes; the waitress put them in a bag and he tucked it under his arm, waited on her to struggle back into her coat. He was certain she’d never let him help with that either, and he pretended it didn’t matter, Beckett slow and stiff as she moved.

When she was zipped up and the collar of her coat flipped up to disperse the chill, Rick opened the door of Remy’s out into a thunderstorm.

“Stay here,” he called over the pounding rain. “I’ll hail a cab.”

“No,” she said back. “My place is only blocks from here. That’s pointless.”

“But it’s raining,” he said, staring at her.

Beckett stepped past him and straight into the rain. “So? You gonna melt, soldier?”

He huffed - she was not seriously doing this - but she was already striking off down the sidewalk without him. He hustled to catch up, not even avoiding the standing water, soaking his shoes and the bottoms of his pant legs as he hurried after her.

“Kate,” he growled, squeezing his arm against his side to keep the milkshakes in place. He grabbed her by the elbow. “You’re sick, and I know it’s freezing out here. This isn’t a good idea.”

“I’m not taking a cab when my apartment is right here. Come on. We can run, if you’re afraid of getting wet.”

He couldn’t fathom her, not at all, and already she was walking fast with her shoulders hunched, moving down Lexington Avenue. Her apartment wasn’t that close, not as close as she seemed to indicate, but he wasn’t stupid.

Beckett had accidentally shown weakness, had gotten cracked open with fever, and he’d gotten too close, seen too much. So now she was straightening her spine and soldiering on, proving herself.

He kept his grip on her elbow and half-jogged with her through the puddles forming on the sidewalk. Even if she fought him, he was going to fucking make her take it easy tonight. He’d shove her into a hot shower to thaw out and then he’d wrap her in blankets and himself and watch her damn sleep if he had to.

And then the skies completely opened up, ripping apart with thunder and lighting, the storm crashing down the avenue. The wind drove needles of rain into his face and whipped her hair out of its bun, the strands slapping her cheeks and tangling.

They’d just come up on 61st and Lex and so he grabbed her hard, yanked her towards an open doorway, pushing her inside a store and out of the torrential rain before she could say a word.

But she was coughing anyway, hacking through the damp, and Rick tugged her out of the way, both of them dripping wet on the wooden floors, the smell of sugar rich in the air.

He glanced around and saw the sprawling cursive over the counter in pink and green and brown, like an overly cheerful college co-ed. Sprinkles.

“Cupcakes,” he said stupidly. The thunder boomed after him like a proclamation, and Kate lifted her head from her hunched position, blinked as she looked around. She looked about as stunned as he felt.

“Cupcakes?”

“Want dessert?” he said lamely. But fuck, it smelled really good in here.

\-----

Maybe it was the space heater curled into one corner of the cupcake bakery, maybe it was the lightning that licked the sky outside, but Kate Beckett had actually agreed to dessert. She sat huddled at the cafe table pulled up next to the ceramic heater, while Richard stood in line to get them something.

Surprise me , she’d said.

She had half a strawberry milkshake in the bag under his arm, but she also loved chocolate. She’d surprised him by staying, and he wondered if she was regretting it already.

He wasn’t going to disappoint her by picking something she wouldn’t like. He studied the selections carefully, weighed his options. When he got to the counter, the girl had her gloved hands tucked into her apron pockets and she smiled shyly at him.

“You need a bag?”

“A bag?” he said, bewildered.

“For those. Looks like yours is falling apart. It got wet.”

He glanced under his arm and saw the bag was complete pulp, disintegrating even as Rick stood there. “Oh, shit. Yeah, actually. Do you mind?”

“We have some plastic delivery bags. I’ll get you one. You know what you want?”

“Yeah. Can I have a mocha, a banana with the bittersweet chocolate frosting, and a ginger lemon. Oh, and one more.” He studied the confections under the gleaming lights, the rows of perfectly swirled frosting-caps, cheerful and smiling. “The spiced pumpkin.”

“The pumpkin has a frosting that’s cinnamon cream cheese.”

“Yeah. That’s good right?”

“I’m just letting you know,” she answered. “Some people don’t want the fat.”

“She could use some fat,” Rick said dryly, rolling his eyes. “See her in the corner? Gorgeous.”

“The cop?” the girl answered, a puckered frown.

“Yeah. She’s skinny as a rail and sick as a dog. Trying to keep her out of the rain, so the more cupcakes, the better.”

“Good luck with that,” the girl said, glancing at Beckett with a look of doubtfulness. “I mean, a girl like her - I bet she eats a salad for every meal.”

“Nope. We had cheeseburgers. They were amazing.”

The girl sighed; Rick noticed now that she had a nice layer of baby fat that made her cheeks pink and put a roll around her waistband. She handed over his cupcakes and the plastic bag and gave him a wistful smile. “Of course she had a cheeseburger. I bet that’s all natural, isn’t it? And you, being a sweetheart and buying her dessert on top of it. So jealous.”

He laughed, surprised not only at her flattery, but also that he’d just had an entire conversation with some twenty-something girl that hadn’t been to serve the mission. He’d talked to her for no reason at all, just to make the time pass, to be friendly.

He’d never done that before.

Also, shit. She was probably Kate’s age.

Fuck, he felt old.

When he carried the cupcakes back to the table with him, Kate glanced up from her clasped hands, her fingers blanched white from cold. She’d gotten as close to the heater as she could.

“Having a nice little date over there?” she laughed softly. She wasn’t jealous, no; but she was curious. She was watching him. “You look - pleased with yourself about that.”

“I picked out cupcakes. And just had a nice exchange. She said you were - all natural? Which I guess is a compliment.”

“All nat...” She flushed and reached for the bag of cupcakes, pulled out one of the cardboard mystery boxes they were packaged in.

“I said you were gorgeous but hacking up a lung,” he said. It had the desired effect - she snorted at him with amusement and popped open the box.

“Oh, this smells divine. Coffee?”

“Yeah, mocha.” He’d actually bought that one for himself but if she wanted it, he wanted her to have it.

“I love coffee,” she said, something childishly eager in her voice. “You did good, Richard.”

He grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m nearly warm. Almost too hot, actually.”

“Here, switch places with me. You’re probably feverish, so it might be better if you sat away from the heater.”

“Stop,” she muttered. “Don’t ruin it now with all that - that - mothering shit. I’m fine.” She took a dainty bite of her cupcake - there was so much frosting that it was difficult not to get messy, but she managed it. She licked a dab of icing with her tongue and closed her eyes into the next bite.

“Mothers are supposed to take care of you when you’re sick,” he said, half guessing. He had a fuzzy impression of being bundled up near a radiator. “And since your mom’s not here to do it, I can figure out, at least, how not to kill you.”

She frowned fiercely into her cupcake and stopped eating, swallowed hard like she hadn’t chewed it fully, just wanted to get it down. “I don’t - don’t need you for that. Just stop hovering, Richard.” She stood and left the cupcake in its wrapper, headed towards the back.

“Wait. What are you doing?”

“Going to the damn bathroom,” she hissed. “Leave me alone.”

Was she crying?

\-----

When she came back about five minutes later, he’d already scarfed two of the cupcakes and left the other two for her. She grunted something inelegant and choked when she saw the empty wrappers and he thought maybe he was blushing.

“They were good,” he defended. “I’ve never had a cupcake before.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “You’re kidding me.”

He shrugged and watched her slowly eat the mocha flavored confection; she licked frosting from her fingers as it smeared.

“What flavor is left?”

“Pumpkin,” he admitted. “I ate the banana and the ginger lemon. The banana had chocolate frosting, Beckett. It was - so rich. So rich. I had to keep refilling my water glass. Got you one too.”

He nudged the paper cup towards her and smiled, searched her face for signs of tears. But her eyes were already so red from coughing all day, her weariness masking whatever else might have happened in the bathroom.

“Never had a damn cupcake,” she grumbled, but something moved in her eyes and she stuffed the cupcake into her mouth as if to combat it.

He chalked it up to exhaustion, a long shift while sick. He remembered the girl he’d taken up with in Turkey had done that too - cried when she was tired. It’d been fucking annoying and he’d always avoided her late at night.

Beckett drank her water and folded the metallic paper from the cupcake in half, then she stood up and shrugged her shoulders inside her coat. “You ready? I want to get going. I don’t think the storm will let up anytime soon.”

He didn’t want her back out there, but he figured it was easier not to argue, simply go along for the ride. Then he’d force her to stop again a couple blocks down. Rick placed the uneaten pumpkin cupcake down inside the plastic bag with the milkshakes and wrapped the handles around his fist. He followed her to the door even as she zipped up her coat.

She didn’t even hesitate, like she had something to prove; she pushed open the door and a blast of cold wind gusted through the cupcake place, made the people behind them shiver. He followed her out into the weather and didn’t bother reaching for her hand - she had both shoved deep into her pockets.

They trudged through silently, the water rolling down and into his eyes, the material of his army-style coat not at all impervious. He felt the storm roaring over their heads, but it was no longer lightning nearby, merely claps of thunder ripping the sky. It was miserable, and he could see it on her face - and she wasn’t unaffected by the cold like he was.

They had to stop for cover. Just for a little while, let his jeans dry out some, let her not look like she was drowning.

When they got to 58th, Richard spotted the perfect place.

He grabbed her by the crook of her elbow and dragged her across the street, hustling her in front of a slow-moving car, dodging a pedestrian with a sad, wilting umbrella. Kate grunted a question at him, but she laughed when she saw the window displays set up bright and pink at eye level.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not Victoria’s Secret.”

“You owe me,” he told her.

“I owe you?”

“One or two, at least,” he said obliquely. He leaned in and grabbed her by the coat, drew her into him to kiss her hard, sealing the heat of his body into hers. She moaned but stayed still, not even moving away, and he withdrew with water spilling down his nose and splashing onto her cheeks. “Orgasms, Beckett. And I want to at least be able to fuel my fantasies for weeks to come. So try a few on.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and then turned a half-hopeful look towards the front doors.

Yeah, she was just miserable and cold and tired enough to actually do it.

Rick ushered her inside Victoria’s Secret.

\-----

She was laughing at him when she went straight for the Pink-labeled apparel at the front of the store - all yoga pants and pajamas and co-ed crap. He came after her, reached out to unzip her coat so he could grip her by her hips, drag her into him.

Beckett liked it rough.

“Not what I want to imagine you in,” he growled, dipping his head for a kiss, fast and hard.

She was still smiling and it ruined the effect, but she put her hands over his at her hips and pried his fingers off of her. He let go, and Kate’s left stayed wrapped around his right; she drew him resolutely towards the back of the store to an elevator.

An elevator. Oh, yes. Yes, that was perfect.

They were the only ones to step onto it and she moved to push the button for the third floor, so he moved fast. He pressed her back against the wall, his chest pinning her, his hands already seeking wet skin. She opened her mouth but Rick dug his fingers down her pants and past her underwear, stroked her raggedly in the cramped space.

She gasped and jerked under his hand; she clutched fistfuls of his coat and he heard water being squeezed out and hitting the floor.

“You’re wet here too,” he murmured. “And so damn hot, love.”

She grunted and he swallowed a kiss from her, his body blocking hers from any possible security cameras. He withdrew his hand slowly, heard the elevator ding its arrival.

On the third floor was the lingerie. Not the regular old beige bras, but the actual lingerie - skimpy and sheer and lacy and arousing as fuck. He couldn’t believe she’d actually-

Oh, yeah, wait. Beckett? Yeah, Beckett had probably done this before, dragged her boyfriend into Victoria’s Secret to torment him.

“Pick one,” she said throatily. “There are dressing rooms on this floor and if you’re fast, you can slip inside with me.”

“I - fuck - I so want to slip inside you.”

She laughed, her eyes dark and faceted as she glanced back at him. “Not what I said, Richard.”

“What I heard. Pick one? Only one? Can’t I just-”

“I get to pick the others,” she said with a smirk.

\-----

He had no idea what he wanted more - pin-up or virginal. Either would be fucking erotic (the sheer pink thing that tied between the breasts with the hem of soft down made him actually bite his own tongue to keep his cock still), but he didn’t want to choose the wrong thing and somehow lower himself in her esteem.

If she esteemed him at all.

Hard to know.

He found silk teddies and satin slips and barely-there camisoles; he discovered bustiers and garters and mesh babydoll dresses. Bridal sets and actual chantilly lace and something called the sexy cowgirl with strategically-placed fringe. He could spot a maid’s outfit and an apron and a kind of scarf bustle thing that shimmered. There was something called a merrywidow, for fuck’s sake, and he was getting half-hard just looking at it all.

“I’m going to die,” he croaked in her ear, hiding behind her as she ran her fingers over a black lace cut-out teddy. “Fuck, Beckett, you can’t touch it like that.”

She wasn’t laughing any more; she had that same dark look in her eyes that he knew was in his. He wanted to fuck her; he just wanted to claim her right now, make her scream his name as she burst into orgasm.

And it wasn’t just style - it was also color. He didn’t know if he wanted black or red or white - a tropical print or an embroidery of pink roses at her nipples. Too much to choose from and it was all getting to him.

After hanging around at her back while she seemingly idly looked at everything, Richard finally went with his gut.

Sex he could have; he wanted something else.

He left her alone for ten seconds to go get it, the one he wanted, and even though the sales lady on this floor was watching him like a hawk, she didn’t prevent him from pawing through the sizes.

He found one that would fit and then he brought it back to Kate at the other side of the store. She was waiting for him, watching him as he approached, and he couldn’t tell by her face what she thought of it.

“That’s what you picked?” she murmured.

He swallowed and glanced down at the soft sheath in his hands. He’d chosen a black silk slip, lace-trimmed at the breasts and hem - also black - but slitted high at the sides. The straps were lace, the v-neck was deep, and the bodice was fitted.

“I picked what I’d buy for you,” he said then. “For just - for a gift.”

Her face went completely blank; it was her classic move, he knew now, the one where she shut herself down.

He must have chosen wrong.

He would have bought it for her - if she’d liked it. He’d buy her anything she wanted in here; he was pretty sure he had enough cash left on him. It didn’t have to be a skimpy nightgown either.

But Beckett took it out of his hands and held it against her. “All right. Now I get to choose. Meet me at the back in five minutes. I’ll sneak you in.”

She wasn’t going to say what she thought about it, but she was sticking to their deal.

“Five minutes,” he promised, and proceeded to make himself as forgetful as possible to the sales clerk.

\-----

Richard shed his coat and folded it tightly to shove it down inside the plastic bag. Now in a black t-shirt and jeans, his hair beginning to dry in the heat of the store, he made certain to keep out of the sales woman’s range.

When the five minutes were up, he slipped back into the dressing rooms and down the pink-striped hallway, searching for Beckett.

A door popped in the frame but didn’t open, and his blood sang. It was the same rush he got from the mission, the acquisition of a target, closing in, knowing success was within reach. He ducked his head to glance at the feet, but instead of ugly black boots and those uniform pants, it was only slim calves and pale toes - painted a heartbreaking ice blue.

It was Kate. He’d woken sometime this morning - covers thrown off the bed - with her feet curled up behind his knees, her body hot to the touch. He’d turned around to cup her ankle, to check on her, and he had noticed then those baby blue toes.

He pushed inside the changing room and she had already changed.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, sinking back against the door as he stared at her.

It wasn’t his - it was one she’d chosen herself. Red lace in two pieces, the teddy pushed her breasts so high that her torso seemed endless, the exposed expanse of her abs squeezing his lungs to dust.

“Mm, you like,” she murmured, her smile widening into something dangerous.

“I’m... you’re...” He trailed off, mesmerized by the swatch of lace at her hips, like an arrow to her sex. Her pubic hair curled around the skimpy bikini and he couldn’t resist reaching out to hook his finger in the crotch.

Her muscles fluttered at the intrusion of his knuckles along her inside thigh; she liked it too. He tugged and she resisted, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “I’ve got two more before we get to yours, Richard. You’ll have to wait.”

“I think I’m going to actually die,” he croaked.

“Back outside, baby,” she smirked. She unhooked his finger and gripped his hand, pushed it back into his chest so that his spine hit the door. “Let me change.”

“I don’t get to watch?”

She shook her head; she was obviously enjoying her power over him. He didn’t even care, and he knew that was dangerous - he knew it was - but whatever she held over him, some power, some sway, some spell, it made every encounter intensely sensual.

“Out,” she said.

He fumbled behind him until he found the knob, twisted it until he managed to get out. She stood just inside the dressing room in red lace so skimpy that most of her was on display, and then she wriggled her fingers in good-bye and shut the door.

He sank back against the pink-striped wallpaper and wondered how in the world he’d gotten here. How had he managed to find the one woman in all of the world who could grab him by the balls and have him like it? And not just that he wanted to fuck her - and oh, hell yes, he did - but more that he wanted her to never let go.

He wanted someone to have power over him, was that it?

The door swung open just that fast and he groaned, his knees dipping so that he had to lean forward and brace himself on the door frame to hold himself up.

“I really like that,” he rasped. The red had made his blood burn, but this concoction of green silk and black lace was something dark and sinful that made him disobey her.

He pushed back inside the dressing room and shut the door, sliding the lock into place. She had her hands on her hips, but he knocked them away and took fistfuls of the green silk, watched it skim her thighs.

“This is against the rules,” she murmured.

“I know,” he growled. He went easy with the material since she seemed to like the way it felt along her skin, the slip dragging up her torso. The black lace that trimmed the bodice seemed to expand as her breath caught.

“You’re supposed to wait for yours.”

“This is mine,” he rumbled.

She closed her eyes as he slid a hand to her hip. He was high enough to rub against her ribs and tease the underside of her breast. He slid his other hand around her waist and pulled her into him so that their hips bumped. A shiver flared along her skin and he realized she was still cold and standing in her underwear, her hair damp and smelling like rain.

He caressed her spine and lowered his mouth to kiss her, rubbing his lips against hers until the warm friction made her moan. Her hands came up to grip his shirt at his spine, pulling him closer, but all he wanted to do was warm her up, catch fire to her blood just as she’d done to his.

One of her feet stepped on top of his and she lifted up, the hard bone of her toe knuckle digging into his foot. She bit at his bottom lip and licked, and he groaned back, the burn of silk between them.

He dropped the slip and cupped her neck, fingers tangling in her wet hair to draw her into him, mouth intent. His body was on fire for her, his need more than he could contain, but all it seemed to be directed here, the touch of lips and tongues, the amazing thing held in his hands.

She jerked back, pushing her hands on his chest and separating them. “You’re supposed to wait.”

“Don’t think I can.”

“One more before yours,” she encouraged.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Big bad soldier. You should be good at hunkering down to wait it out. Foxhole down.”

“I’m gonna have to stay right here and watch,” he said, clearing his throat. Kissing her was as intense as pushing inside her, and he knew it had affected her the same - she was rebuilding her defenses as fast as possible.

She reached past him to unlock and open the door, not even bothering to hide herself from whoever might be out there. No one, of course, was out there - the place was deserted - but he admired her bold eroticism.

“Fine, I’ll go but I’m gonna need you to hurry.”

She smirked and he stepped out, let her shut the door on him.

\-----

“That’s mine,” he said throatily.

“I didn’t think you could survive the other,” she said.

“You look gorgeous,” he rasped.

She shut the door herself, enclosing them within the tight space of the changing room, and she shifted into his body, too close for him to even see.

He wanted to see it.

Richard placed his hands on her hips - the black silk still cool - and pushed her back a little, letting himself study her in his choice. Her breasts were plumped by the too-tight bodice, the black straps mere lace and so delicate along her skin. The silk of the slip dropped straight from her breasts to shimmer at the top of her thighs, the peek of her red-lace covered sex like a burning cherry.

She didn’t even have to preen, didn’t have to strut or tilt her hip; she merely stood there and breathed and he was achingly hard already.

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the lace strap, touched his tongue to the material and tasted the scrape. She gasped and slid her arms around his neck, tightening, her breasts pushed against him.

“You’re still wet,” he murmured, tasting rain on her collarbone from where her hair was dripping.

“Yeah,” she said roughly. “Have been since you showed up outside my precinct.”

He groaned at her meaning and dragged her body into his, pushed his hand inside her panties. “These yours?”

“What?” she muttered. Her face pressed into his neck and then her teeth dragged along his jaw. “Why are you-”

“I’m going to ruin them - so if these aren’t yours, Beckett, tell me now.”

“Not mine,” she murmured. “You’ll have to take them off.”

He quickly hooked his thumb in her panties and dragged down one side; she helped, using one arm around his neck to keep her balance while they worked together. Her panties dropped to the floor of the dressing room and she nudged him back against the mirror.

“Don’t want the sales lady looking under the door and seeing your feet,” she grinned.

“We don’t?”

Kate laughed but had to turn her head and cough, her body trembling in his arms as she struggled for breath. Her skin rippled with goose bumps again and he realized he wasn’t doing his job.

So he wrinkled the silk slip in one hand and rucked it up, dipped his other hand over the curve of her ass and squeezed. She grunted and the cough cut off, but she was still shaking - a slight tremor that he thought were chills.

“Lean forward,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Lean into me, Kate.” He tightened his grip around her waist and pushed the warmed silk into her spine. She fell into his chest and pressed her cheek to him, her wet hair making a damp spot on his t-shirt.

The position was more than he’d expected - it was a trusting gesture, this resting against him - and he’d simply meant for her to brace herself. But before she could realize how vulnerable it made her, he slipped his fingers between her legs.

She sucked in a breath that he could feel against his shirt, feel down to his skin so that his body buzzed where her mouth was.

“You really doing this?” she murmured.

“Getting you off inside a dressing room?” he answered. “Oh, yes, love. Most definitely. Relax and go with it.”

She hummed and her hand on his hip skated up to press at his pec, her fingers scratching at his nipple through the material. He grunted and had to focus on the heat cupped in his hand, the amazing damp wetness that leaked out.

“You feel so good,” he said softly. “I love holding you between your legs like this.”

She groaned and buried the sound against his chest; his cock was throbbing now, aching for her.

Rick used his fingers to open her sex to him, made her hips shift restlessly. He found her folds slick and burning, and he explored the amazing contours of her slit. She was panting now, the sound harsh in her lungs, her thighs grazing his.

He dropped the silk and it caught between their bodies, the tail slipping down to cover her ass and tickle the inside of his wrist. He stroked her folds even as he gripped her neck with his other hand, pressing her against him.

She began to rock, her mouth clamped tightly against his throat to keep herself quiet. Her body writhed in these desperate little jerks against his hand. He stroked her folds, found that rough slide where it seemed to make her burn and come alive, and she opened her mouth to his chest on a silent groan.

Her teeth dug into him and he rubbed his thumb between her ass cheeks, felt her grunt and shudder, her orgasm close. He went faster, matching her rhythm, and he managed to coax out a neat and dirty climax that drenched her like a cloudburst.

He kept her close to him, bracing her, supporting her, holding her up as she shook through it.

She moaned his name by the end and he dropped a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and the rich aroma of rain.

He was definitely buying this.

\-----

He wanted to dress her himself but she slipped out of his arms and did her own thing, pulled her panties on under the slip.

She jerked her thumb towards the door. “Out.”

“Out?”

“Out, before they come looking. I’ll leave it all in the dressing room and slip out after you.”

“Leave it here?”

“Well, I’m not putting it back,” she muttered. “Not after... that.”

“What was wrong with that?” he said innocently.

“Get out. I’ve got to change back into my uniform.”

“You do realize that affects me about the same way?”

She laughed, a caught cough in her throat, and pushed him away. He put his back to the door and watched her a moment, the way her hair was beginning to wave around her face as it dried, the hunched lines of her shoulders as she pulled the slip off over her head.

While she was blinded by the fabric, he reached for that elusive third item she hadn’t tried on for him, grabbed a handful of silver and white and black whose function or form he couldn’t even fathom. He hid it behind him and backed out of the dressing room as she tossed her hair free of the material.

“What are you doing?” she said suspiciously.

“Leaving you to it,” he sighed. “See you on the outside?”

She narrowed her eyes but he slipped out, closing the door on her. He headed back down the striped hallway with his sole prize in hand, the mysterious lingerie she’d picked for herself but hadn’t tried on. He wondered why with a burning curiosity, so as soon as he cleared the changing rooms and found himself alone, he held it up before him.

A black cut-out teddy, with silver thread worked into the black lace. It was somehow both feminine and military, a confluence of industrial metalwork and French boudoir - the perfect reflection of everything that was Kate Beckett.

He was buying it; he had to have it - on her. He had to see what she looked like in this thing. Forget the simple black slip, this was Beckett.

Richard folded it up and headed for the register located in the center of the floor, found the sales woman standing off to one side, her mouth pinched. When he held up the teddy, her lips relaxed as if this finally was acceptable to her.

“Is this all for you, sir?”

“That’s all I need,” he answered, placing the teddy on the counter. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Kate hadn’t come out yet. “And can you be fast? My girlfriend doesn’t know I’m getting it for her. I want it to be a surprise.”

The woman actually smiled at that, though it was just as pinched as he disapproval.

She did, at least, start to hurry.

\-----

When Kate came back out to him, she only gave him these sidelong looks, like she didn’t want him to bring it up - what they’d done in the dressing room. He had a feeling it wasn’t because of the orgasm, but rather more because of how much she’d given away, how much he’d been able to see.

Her choice of lingerie said something about her, yes, but also the way she’d leaned into him, given herself over to him, surrendered. So of course she was distant and closed off now; he’d gotten too far, been given the key to a lock she wanted impenetrable.

He followed her out of Victoria’s Secret and into the mild rain, her hair back in its bun again and sleekly wet. She set off down Lexington once more and he found himself hurrying after her, his own Victoria’s Secret secret tucked into the plastic cupcake bag under his arm.

There were huge puddles to avoid but he liked the way his boots splashed, the satisfying slosh of water even as the rain drizzled around them. The thunder still grumbled over their heads but the lightning had disappeared; the air was touched with a chill that made Kate’s lips rawly pink, her cheeks almost blue.

He hadn’t taken a good enough look at the map, but he was beginning to realize just how far down her building was - they still had blocks and blocks to go, and she was completely unwilling to take it easy.

No cabs, not even the subway station. Just the long walk in the rain. He could complain, make it about him, but she wasn’t stupid - she knew it didn’t even faze him. They passed plenty of places he could have made her stop, but he didn’t think she really would - a flower shop where he’d have liked to figure out her favorites just by the way she browsed, a candy store filled with colors.

Oh, but flowers and chocolates and lingerie? That was probably too cliche, and maybe too real for Beckett, too much of a relationship thing. She didn’t want gifts; she wanted sex. At least the lingerie could be reasoned away.

He couldn’t wait to have her try it on for him in the privacy of her apartment, the slow tease as she walked toward him. He imagined himself sitting on the couch with his hands restless on his thighs, that fantastic view before him: her legs forever long, her hair in that wild disarray he’d glimpsed in the dressing room.

She started coughing again, breaking his illusion, and he clutched the back of her coat in a firm grip. “Coffee shop,” he said, nodding to the storefront labeled DeMarco’s just up the street. They were already past 51st and maybe halfway to her apartment, but the smell of coffee within the rain was alluring - and it would warm her up.

“Coffee?” she murmured, her head turning.

She looked sick - she was sick - but she actually looked it now. Soaked to the skin from the drizzle of rain, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut. And yet she was leaning towards that coffee shop.

“Come on. Let’s go.” He walked on without her, heading for the glass doors and opening one for her.

She hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.

The place smelled amazing. “Most of my coffee is army rations, and it’s awful, but it’s caffeine, right?” He grinned at her and moved for the line at the back of the sleek, chrome place. The chalkboard over the counter was filled with yellow and red menu items, and every cup was black with a red lid. Trying pretty hard to brand themselves, but who cared if it tasted good.

“Army rations,” she murmured. “Sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah, it is. Sludge. So every port I’m stationed, first thing I do is try their coffee.”

“You ever heard of Joe? Best coffee in the city,” she said firmly. She’d evidently agreed to be distracted by his diversion and he had to remember that - coffee was a shortcut to her heart.

“Joe’s? No-”

“Not Joe’s,” she said quickly. “Just Joe. Like a cup of joe? There’s one in the Village. I’ll take you - if you like coffee that much.”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “Definitely.” I’ll take you meant he’d see her again later - that he’d be allowed to spend the week with her like he wanted. As if she’d grown used to the idea of him sticking around.

When they’d ordered and received their lattes, he moved for a table near the window, wanting to be able to see outside and also watch the door. Rick pulled out her chair for her but she moved around to sit at the other spot, as if she hadn’t even noticed.

His spot. And now he was stuck with his back to the door.

He sat down.

Beckett hunched over her mug and inhaled the aroma, her eyes closing. He wanted a picture of that, he wanted to see that face always.

But he didn’t have a camera. Nothing on him, not even one of the special tools he used in an operation. He wished he’d been better prepared. Just one image of her, one photo to take with him, and he’d be good.

As it was, he’d have to remember this: the sky dark outside and throwing shadows under her lashes, her tiredness falling away as she cupped a mug of coffee close to her face.

It was more than he’d ever expected when he’d followed her out of a bar and stepped onto her subway car. He couldn’t let it go. It was killing him already, and he was still here.

And she’d never let him-

Well, he’d just have to make her. This gorgeous, scarily intelligent woman with the wounded eyes and the determination that would kill a lesser man. He’d make her accept him, make her want him just as much as he wanted her.

More than just need, more than sex, there had to be a way to find something real. He knew she had goals, knew she had things she wanted to accomplish - this was her city - and he had a job as well, a job that was his life. So he wasn’t looking to ruin anything, to make it a choice; he just wanted a chance to find something with her.

She sipped her coffee and hummed, her head titled to one side before her eyes opened again.

God. She was gorgeous.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She smiled at him.

It was a moment out of time. She wasn’t Beckett, wasn’t the daughter of a murdered mother and a drunken father, wasn’t an officer of the law looking to rise through the ranks. She was a girl he’d brought to a coffee shop with the hope for more rising between them.

Her eyes were green in the sudden light that slanted awkwardly through a break in the clouds, a clear green of water over mossy rocks, the brown a reflection of the earth.

She was still smiling as she took another sip of coffee, her lips against the mug and a pink touch to her cheeks. Fever or the coffee or that interlude in the dressing room, who knew, but it was beautiful and sweet and he saw the Kate of her beneath all the rest of it.

He could love her, so easily. It wouldn’t take much at all.


	8. Chapter 8

He noticed how they watched her - the people of New York. When he got up the courage to take her hand again, he did it under the guise of running through the newly thundering storm, darting to the covered entrance of a hotel with her fingers laced through his. She was out of breath when they got to the steps of the hotel, her lashes clumped with rain, and the people going in and out of the front doors all gave Kate a respectful distance.

She wasn’t in her uniform though her NYPD coat was unzipped. She was unmistakeable even without the accoutrements of her job - no weapon, no cuffs, no spray or baton or radio. Back in her locker, of course, but the coat marked her as distinct.

It was interesting to be within her sphere, her orbit. She had unconscious command of those around her, anyone in reach, and he didn’t think he was any different. He just couldn’t understand why she didn’t have more like him, boys or men either one, all of them ready to do anything for her.

She wouldn’t be only an officer for long; she’d rise quickly, put herself at the top soon enough. He found he wanted to be there for that, wanted to see it and celebrate it with her.

He reached out and brushed his thumb under her eye, dragging water away from her skin. He put his thumb in his mouth and sucked at the rain; she turned her head and looked away from him.

But she didn’t move away. She stayed close to him, their hands still joined, fingers together and their heartbeats thumping easily in time to the thunder.

With her hair in the bun, a few bedraggled ends had curled around her ear, wet and dark against the pale of her skin. He reached for that as well, following the curve with his fingers, tucking it back into her bun. She turned her head into his touch to look at him, a question in her eyes, and he lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss.

She returned it softly, she gave into it, the wet touch of tongues slow and sensual, the exploration. She was warm, too warm, and her fingers curled in his hand as they kissed.

The lightning broke the sky and their moment, and she pulled easily back, her lashes framing her eyes with pearls of rain.

“I’m ready to get home,” she said, her voice husky. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. Definitely ready to be home. “Let’s go.”

She turned first and left the shelter of the hotel entrance, her chin tucked into her coat collar as she pulled him after her.

They had maybe five more blocks to go, and then they’d be home.

\-----

Richard managed to keep her hand their whole walk home. The rain was misting by the time they arrived at her building, they were both thoroughly soaked. He was feeling the chill in his fingertips, the only place it ever got to him, but she was biting her tongue to keep from shivering.

He pretended not to notice, but he took her keys from her hand and unlocked it himself, ignored her garbled protest. She started coughing the second he pushed her inside, and she sounded worse than she had all day. He kicked the door shut and dropped her keys on the little table by the couch, tossed the plastic bag of their goodies beside it.

She was struggling with her coat, and he came up wordlessly, untangled the sleeves from her arms, shook the material out so that the raindrops scattered. She frowned at him, and he hung her coat over the back of the armchair, came to help with the rest.

“Richard-”

“It’s Rick,” he sighed, dropping to his knees and thumping the back of her knee. She yelped and her weight shifted as her leg gave way; he pulled her foot up and worked the laces quickly, tugged her boot off.

“What the fuck?” she muttered. But she gripped his shoulder and coughed again, her head bowing as she tried to suppress it, her wet hair falling out of the bun with the weight of all that water. It grazed his forehead as she doubled up, and he unknotted the laces of her other shoe, got it off fast.

“Hot shower or bath?” he asked, rising to his feet and holding her steady. She tried to dislodge him, tried to escape him, but he wasn’t having it any more. “Beckett. Hold still and answer me.”

He moved for the hem of her shirt next, and she pushed his hands away. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

“No, but I want to see if you shoplifted one of those sexy lace things.”

She grunted something unattractive and pulled away from his hands, taking over the shirt herself, struggling with it.

“You didn’t steal one? Too bad. Good thing I did.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

He grinned and went back for the plastic bag, withdrew the pink-striped package.

Her jaw dropped, her fingers went still on her shirt, let go.

“I bought something.”

“You bought me something?” she rasped, frowning and crossing her arms over her chest.

“No,” he said clearly. “I bought me something for you. But you’re shivering all over the place and ruining the mood. So bath or shower, Beckett? Warm you up.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and reached out for the pink-striped package; he put it behind his back and shook his head.

“It’s mine.”

“Fine. You asshole.” Beckett threw up her hands and stalked down the hallway, ripping her turtleneck off over her head. Her hair was in a dark rope down her back and he followed, stepping inside the bathroom with her as she turned on the hot water.

“You chose shower?” he sighed. “I was hoping bath.”

“You? What’s it to you?” she snarked, unbuttoning her pants.

Rick reached out and snagged her wrists, shook his head at her. “That’s my job, Beckett.” He carefully gauged the fire in her eyes and then he unzipped her pants, slowly, making it a production.

She was practically gnashing her teeth, but behind the bluster, her cheeks were painted with roses of color that trailed all the way down her neck and bloomed at the tops of her breasts as well.

“You look delicious,” he murmured, leaning in to dust his mouth over the slope of her shoulder.

“Rick,” she hitched. Her fingers came up to his ear and splayed through his hair like she didn’t know whether to hold on to him or push him away.

“You taste like rain,” he sighed. She mewled something in her chest and he could smell her now, the rain-drenched sex of her. He pushed her pants off her hips and they fell in a heap to the floor, the shapeless things. Now she was only in her bra and underwear, and they weren’t Victoria’s Secret, they were merely cotton, but she was destructively sensual in them as well.

He ghosted his kiss down her sternum between her breasts, nudging his nose to the cup of her bra, tasting the overwarm skin and remembering the way her sweat collected right here when she was in the middle of crying out his name.

Her breath caught and rattled, and he was reminded of the reason they were here. Already the shower had caused steam to build up in the tiny bathroom, the clawfoot tub unable to hold it in. He skimmed his fingers up under the clasp of her bra at her back, deftly opened it and peeled the cups down.

She groaned when he cradled her breasts, and her eyes closed when he squeezed. Her breath came in awkward hitches, her hand was fisting in the coat he still wore, and he wanted to do this to her all the time. He wanted to make her want him despite herself.

“Take my clothes off,” he murmured at her breast. He touched his tongue to her nipple and she gasped.

“You - you do it yourself,” she growled. “You’ve got - hands.”

“But then I’d have to let go,” he answered mournfully, squeezing her breasts again.

She knocked his hands away and stepped back, her eyes glittering like dark skies. “Now try. Clothes off.”

He grinned back and stripped off his coat, toeing off his shoes as he did, shedding his shirt after it. When he got to his pants, she had narrowed her eyes at him, but amusement was back.

“You manipulative bastard,” she laughed.

“You told me to strip so I did,” he said innocently, reaching down to push his boxer briefs off. His cock was already at attention and she took an appreciative long look and came for him.

Her hand closed around him and he groaned, let her know just how fucking much he’d wanted that. “Ah, shit, yes. That’s - good.”

“You’re already so fucking hard.”

“Since I met you,” he growled back.

She grinned and rubbed her thumb over the head of his cock, just holding him in her hand.

“You’ve still got on panties and your water is running,” he said, reaching for her hips to get her into the action.

She sidestepped and released his cock, bent to strip off her panties. She sauntered for the shower curtain, her ass was ripe and perfect. He followed her under the spray, slapping one of those delicious cheeks.

She jumped but turned to him on a laugh, a kind of breathless thing that he thought wasn’t just the cough. He’d have to come back to that later. In the meantime, all this naked Beckett standing in front of him and his hands were empty.

Rick remedied that quickly, gripping her by the ass and pulling her against him so their chests grazed. The heat was suddenly stifling and he wanted very badly to have her push him to the bottom of the tub and mount him, make him desperate for it.

He groaned and lowered his head for a kiss, sucking on her lips when she wouldn’t open for him.

“And why, exactly, were you hoping for a bath when a shower is so much more fun?” she murmured into his mouth.

“I wanted to put you between my legs and have you play with me while I played with you,” he growled back, biting her bottom lip and licking the wound.

“Fuck,” she groaned. “Fuck. Can still - do that.”

“Save it for a rainy day,” he murmured, sliding one hand between her legs and the other to his shaft. “I want inside you.”

She clutched his shoulders and hiked up her hip, then suddenly came straight down on him so that his cock invaded her.

They both groaned, hearts pounding in time to the beat of water against the porcelain tub, and she shook in his arms, trembling or shivering or something. She was rigid; she was only halfway down his shaft.

“Baby, you okay?” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. He got a grip under her ass and supported some of her weight and she sucked in a shallow breath.

“Move,” she choked out. “You gotta - move - just please move.”

He adjusted his hold and rocked his hips and she cried out, already gripping him inside. He wouldn’t get off like this, not after a couple strokes, but she definitely would.

Rick found her neck with his mouth and sucked lightly at the water collecting in little streams, moved his hips against hers in a slow and shallow rhythm. He gripped her hard but couldn’t let go to search for her clit; she was draped against him now and humping, moving up and down greedily, weakly along his cock.

“Touch yourself, Kate,” he said. “I can’t get to you like this. You gotta do it, baby.”

She wrapped her arm tighter around his neck and shifted her other hand between them. It was erotic, the feel of her fingers brushing his abs until she was sliding around in their arousal, her strokes hard and desperate, her forehead at his shoulder as she rode it down.

She orgasmed with a choked cry, clutching him fiercely inside her, and he stopped moving to hold her tighter, safe against his body.

Her leg trembled and dropped from around his waist, but she still wasn’t quite standing.

Rick lifted a foot and shut off the water, and then he leaned them both just far enough to snag one of her towels. He wrapped them both in it, crossing the edges together at her back, trapping the heat between them.

“Don’t make me carry you to bed,” he murmured at her cheek. Her fingers fumbled and stroked his balls, brushed against his hip as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

“You’re a bully,” she sighed back.

“But you’ll go?”

“So long as you come.”

“I’ll be there,” he reassured her.

She gave a sputtering laugh and tilted her head back to look at him. “Right now, Richard. Come.” She slapped his ass and he grunted, still hard and throbbing inside her. With her legs down and pressed together, she made a tight, narrow channel that barely kept him in.

“In bed,” he tried, but she dug her nails into his ass and rocked into his hips.

He hissed and his head dropped back, suddenly not at all in control in anymore.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Come inside me; you know you want to. Ever since you put your fingers in my underwear in that dressing room, you’ve wanted to be right here, buried deep-”

He shouted with his orgasm, clamping her body tightly to his, rooting deep and hard until it was done.

She was humming and stroking his ass with both hands, her body vibrating and alive with it.

\-----

He’d been completely undone by her, but it got him what he wanted - more ways than one. She was pliant heat in his arms and though she didn’t, actually, let him carry her, he trailed behind her straight to bed.

She was naked and her hair was wet on the pillow but she held a hand out to him as if inviting him in for more; he crawled into bed with her laid his body over hers, felt the burn of her skin against him and looked down into that smile.

“You’ve stopped coughing,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Steam. Always works. Now come on. I know you’ve got another in you.”

He laughed at her impatience, but he filed that away for later - steam. He could even see how that worked, loosening things up, making it easier to breathe.

She rolled her hips under him in a bid for attention, but he shifted off of her and reached for the bedside table. “I was thinking this, actually.”

She turned with him, following the arrow of his arm until he pulled the Vicks back to the bed with them. “No,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Are you serious? That’s not sexy. I know what you’re doing, Richard.”

“What am I doing?”

“Trying to mother me. Not allowed. You’re here for sex.”

“You’ve never tried it,” he argued, holding up the jar of Vicks. “Might be pretty kinky. Like a massage. It’s for your chest, right? Let me work this stuff-”

“It’s not kinky, it’s just greasy. And-”

“Greasy and it burns a little, and it’s cool, and it helps you breathe and I get to touch you. All over.”

Her mouth closed, eyes narrowed. Her breasts were ripe and her nipples hard and at attention, eager for his hands even if she had misgivings about the Vicks. He opened the jar and shifted back on top of her, pressing her flat to the mattress and holding her down.

“Like this,” he said, scooping his fingers into the jar and digging in. He greased up both hands and wriggled his fingers at her, let his knees take some of his weight so he wouldn’t crush her.

She rolled her eyes at him again, but there was a little laugh in her voice. “You’re such a goofball.”

A goofball? No one had ever - a goofball? Really?

He grinned and pressed his palms to her chest, just above her breasts, rubbed his fingers along the upward sweep of her ribs into her sternum. She raised an eyebrow as if to say is that all? and he curled his hands over her shoulders, stroked his thumbs at her neck.

Her breath hitched. Slapping her ass, closing his hands around her throat - she was more turned on than she’d meant to be.

Later.

Rick scrubbed his hands down hard over her breasts and cupped them, massaging and working the greasy Vicks into her skin, into her hard nipples. She moaned and arched under him, her eyes slamming shut, and he thought the menthol had probably registered.

“Burns,” she groaned, shaking again under him. She gasped a breath and clutched his hips, her legs spreading beneath his and hooking around his thighs. She was suddenly desperate, on fire, rocking into him and moving, writhing.

All because of the Vicks. And his hands kneading into her breasts. He rubbed hard underneath those globes, working the camphor into the lines where her bra had been, feeling the weight of her against the backs of his hands. She groaned and her chest rattled with the breath, but she had found a spot at his thigh and was soaking him with her arousal.

She was wordless in it all, moving with these unbridled and erotic thrusts of her hips, the undulation of her body, impassioned and free in a way he didn’t think she ever truly let herself be these days.

But she couldn’t help it with him. She kept coming even when she didn’t want to let him have that much power over her.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured and lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers. She moaned and sucked on his tongue, her legs wide and his cock trapped at her belly. He propped himself up on one elbow to squeeze her breasts with one hand, his other under her back to angle her up against him.

She was writhing her way up his body until her sex hit his cock and they both hissed, his forehead dropping against hers.

“Now,” she demanded, panting as her hands clutched his ass. “Inside me.”

“I had plans,” he growled, rolling the hard point of her nipple between his greasy fingers.

“What?”

She seemed up for it, okay with whatever he wanted so long as it resulted in her orgasm. She liked to be in control of it, but he thought maybe he was teaching her how good it could be when he had control of her.

“Feels good on your nipples, doesn’t it?” he said, rolling her peaked breast again, squeezing.

She groaned and opened her eyes, those gorgeous, limitless vacuums, black holes sucking him down. He kissed her again, thrusting into her mouth like she wanted his cock to be doing, and he brought his hand down to her sex, fingers still thick with Vicks.

He touched her folds with the grease first, and then he rubbed hard over her clit.

She yelled around his tongue and her legs clamped tight around his hand; she shattered in an orgasm so fierce and spectacular that he forgot to move.

He could only stare down at her as she shuddered in the grip of something ruthless, his own body caught and trapped in hers, held down to her like she wanted to press her way inside him.

He penetrated her with two fingers and she came again with a gasp, her hips rolling now, up and up, desperate and clenching around his hand, her arms strangling his neck and keeping him still.

He released her sex and she fell back against the mattress, boneless and croaking his name, done in and worn out and heading for sleep.

Rick wiped his hand on the sheet and leaned in to kiss her closed eyelids; she didn’t even stir.

\-----

He dressed instead of torturing himself being naked in bed with her, and then he used her computer to get on WebCrawler and search for more home remedies. He read warnings about how a cold could set up in the lungs and cause pneumonia, don’t delay in getting treatment - it made him wish he knew a discrete doctor not attached to the CIA.

He popped the battery back into his phone only to check his messages, just long enough to know his father wasn’t looking for him, and then he popped the battery out again. He had a strange sense of paranoia when it came to her, to letting anyone know about her, like she was best kept as a secret.

His mouth went dry whenever he remembered his father knew her name.

Call in a doctor? Impossible for a man in his position. But he knew it would be worse to use CIA resources on her.

No, he couldn’t. This would remain his secret. She was his to discover, search out, reveal. Whatever it was between them, whatever this would be, no one else was allowed to put their dirty hands on it. Not his father, not the CIA. There would be no encounter report filed; this was just too precious, this new and fragile and yet so powerful thing.

Well, it was for him. And he would drag her into it with him if he had to.

He padded back to the hallway and into her bedroom, haunted the doorway without going all the way inside. She was buried under the covers, unmoving. He watched until he saw her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest. She was curled on her side, and her hair was snarled over the pillow.

He finally came forward and bent over her.

She was breathing thickly through her mouth, one hand under her cheek. It touched something painfully raw inside him, a place he hadn’t known could exist.

He brushed his fingers lightly at her temple, snaking a strand of hair back behind her ear. He had nothing to do - no work, no mission, no ideas - but he thought maybe crawling into bed with her and spending four hours watching her sleep would be a little pathetic.

So he ducked a kiss above her eyebrow and stood up again, trying to convince himself he should leave. What would happen tomorrow? She was clearly sick, dog-tired but pushing herself anyway. It was commendable in an agent on an active mission; it was necessary in a soldier in the field. But a police officer? They had sick days, right?

He didn’t know much about getting sick, but he knew that if she didn’t give herself the chance to rest, she wasn’t going to get better. And he only had a week here to force her to take it easy, only a week to enjoy her. A week was suddenly not enough time at all.

She was going to run herself ragged trying to prove something, push her limits to the breaking point until she was worse than she was now. And then he’d have to get on a damn plane and leave her like this, knowing she was fucking terrible at taking care of herself.

Damn it.

No. He refused to let her run herself into the ground.

He was going to make her.

Richard set his jaw and reached over to her bedside table, yanked the alarm clock’s plug straight out of the wall.

The numbers still glowed green.

What the-

Oh, battery back-up, right. Rick picked it up and used his nail to pry the bottom off, fished the battery out of it. The green display went dark and he replaced it on the bedside table.

He didn’t even feel bad about it. She deserved a chance to rest. Shit, even Mike Royce had to see it, how sick she’d been all day. Rick would call in for her tomorrow before her shift started at nine.

He wondered idly about her father, started to worry about that too. Where had she left her cell phone? He hunted back down the hallway to the bathroom, rifled through her pants pockets, but he didn’t find it. He jogged towards the living room and patted down her coat, finally found it there.

He checked, but no one had called. He’d keep her phone out here with him and then when he went in to bed with her later tonight, he’d put it on his side, change it to vibrate instead of ring.

He was learning. He was figuring her out.

Tomorrow, he’d slip out to get her specialty coffee, and then he’d wake her up. He’d wake her with his mouth between her legs, the taste of her on his tongue, and then he’d lift himself up over her and take her slowly, good morning, love, until the fact that she’d overslept completely left her mind.

Coffee in bed with her trying to sip her caffeine around the sharp jerk of her hips while he kissed and fingered her, not give her a moment to think about taking a sick day. Then he’d put their cups aside and have her again, his mouth at her breasts, reminding her of just how good it felt to stay in bed.

He was hard just thinking about it.

This could work; this had to work.

\-----

An alarm buzzed angrily from somewhere and Richard jerked awake, instantly aware, as Kate groaned and slid out of bed, already coughing as she moved.

“Kate,” he grunted and came after her fast, blocking the doorway.

She bounced off his chest and stared up at him. The alarm was still going off shrilly, echoing in the room, and she coughed, lowering her head to his chest. “What’re you doing? Lemme turn that fucking thing off.”

Where was that damn alarm coming from? “You can’t-”

She had already pushed past him, heading for the bathroom, and he watched dumbfounded as she disappeared inside. The alarm switched off and he realized she must have a back-up in there.

“I’m running late,” she called out, the words disappearing into another fit of coughing. “Can you - shit - can you get me some cold medicine? And coffee.”

Her voice was broken off in another fit of coughing and he stood helplessly in the hallway as she slammed the door shut on him and the shower cut on.

Damn it.

She was better than him, better than he’d expected.

Cold medicine and coffee, it was.

\-----

He followed her again Tuesday while she did the same route, covered the same ground. He had the motorcycle but she didn’t even look around, didn’t seem to have the same focus of attention she’d had Monday. He was a little sloppy though, worried about her, and Royce seemed like he was starting to pick up on something.

He had to be a little more circumspect tomorrow. Or he’d have to fucking find her back-up alarm clock.

She coughed all through her shift, of course. Coughed and he saw her popping those cough drops this time too; she ran out at some point because he saw her buy another package of them at a convenience store right before the two got a call.

When her shift had ended and the car had been parked inside the lot, Richard waited for her just outside, past the range of the security cameras, a block down in the direction of the subway. He hunched his shoulders against the wind, grateful for her sake that it wasn’t raining, and squinted his eyes against the flare of headlights.

He saw her walking quickly down the sidewalk, but she didn’t notice him until the last possible second. She startled and laughed, but it was cut off with a cough. Still, she joined him and hooked her arm through his, leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment.

“Hey, love,” he murmured. He reached over with his free hand and cupped her cheek, kissed her temple. “Good day?”

“Hm, you should know,” she rasped.

“What?” There was no way she’d seen him. Sloppy for him was still leagues better than-

“I’m sick,” she muttered. “Of course it wasn’t a good day. Shit. I feel awful.”

Shit. He was just relieved she hadn’t spotted him. Also, she’d just admitted she felt bad, all while leaning her head against his shoulder.

She must feel really fucking bad.

“Let me take you home.” He tugged her down the street towards the subway station - she was taking the damn subway to and from work - but she hung back.

“Actually.”

“Uh-oh. What?” he said, giving her a grin under the street lights. She looked wan. That was the word for it - wan. She needed warmth and sustenance and rest. Maybe he could even slip in a nice orgasm too, relax her enough to sleep, just like last night. They weren’t walking all the way home tonight. No way.

“Food first,” she said. “Before we head home.”

Home. A peculiar heat curled around his spine. “Remy’s?” he asked. He could do that again. And then take her straight home on the subway.

“Yeah, you mind going there again? I don’t have any groceries and I don’t make meals.”

He grinned. “I could try to make a meal, but I’m not sure it would turn out so hot.”

“So, Remy’s it is,” she said, though there was a kind of question in it.

“Yeah, Remy’s it is,” he agreed, pressing her arm against his side. “Come on, Becks.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not my name.”

“It’s cute though, right?”

“I don’t do cute.”

“Your dad calls you ‘Katie’. I wouldn’t call you that.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” she muttered.

He carried her along with him, heading for Remy’s. It was past the subway station, but he wasn’t worried; he’d get her there. Even if he had to somehow bribe her.

“Hey, you know what we didn’t do?” she said suddenly. Her voice was thick and she had to clear her throat. “You didn’t give me my present. I’m sorry - your present.”

The lingerie.

He laughed and glanced down to her; she was shorter than he remembered, every time, like her presence was just so much more, so taller than he expected. In those flat boots she came up to his ear, her hair tickled his neck, but he always thought he’d be looking straight into her eyes.

“Come on. Where’s that lingerie you bought?” she said, nudging his hip.

“It’s still in the bag at home,” he answered easily. “You gonna try it on for me?”

“Maybe. If you’re good.”

“I can be very good,” he said eagerly.

“Buy me dinner first, and then I’ll put out for you,” she grinned, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

\-----

He sat down on the same side of the booth as her and she gave him a funny look.

“What are you doing, Richard?”

“Rick,” he insisted. “And I’m sitting down. What are you getting this time?”

“What am I - no, why are you sitting pressed up against me? Sit over there.”

“But I like sitting pressed up against you. This way I can do this,” he answered, sliding his hand over her knee and up the inside of her thigh, fast and quick, darting straight to that heat between her legs before she could move.

She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes, fever blooming bright on her cheeks. “Rick.”

“Yeah, good, huh, baby?” He leaned in and kissed her temple. “Plus you’re feverish and keeping me warm.”

“You said you don’t get cold,” she muttered.

“I meant, you know, hot.”

She rolled her eyes at him but she didn’t shove him off the bench; instead her cough stalled out whatever she might have said, her body tightening and her mouth buried into the crook of her arm.

He could feel her lean in against him as she coughed, and even when she could breathe again, she stayed there, her arm pressed against his.

The waitress came up then and offered them menus, but Kate waved them off. She asked for water and a glass of scotch, which surprised him, though she was technically off duty.

She poked his side. “You up for another burger? This one is a turkey burger, so it’s a little healthier.”

He shrugged. “I’m up for whatever.”

“It’s good, promise.” She leaned past him and nodded to the waitress. “Two turkey burgers, wheat bun. Oh, and that pepper jack cheese, um, I want lettuce and tomato as well. Rick?”

“Yeah, lettuce and tomato. Can I have - do you have other cheeses?”

Waitress rattled it off. “Provelone, sharp cheddar, and American.”

“Uh, sharp cheddar,” he said, glancing back to Kate. “Anything else a burger should have on it?”

“Mayo, mustard, ketchup?” she offered.

He shuddered. “No. Definitely not.”

She grinned, lifted her face to the waitress. “No, we’re good, thanks. Add a plate of fries and milkshakes.”

“We didn’t drink yesterday’s,” he said. “Still in the fridge.”

“So?” She lifted an eyebrow at him and he gave up.

“Fine, but make mine - uh - what other flavors are there?”

The waitress gave a little huff. “Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry.”

“And banana,” Kate put in.

“Right, like she said.”

“Um. Can I mix them?” he asked. He’d taken a few sips of the chocolate one last night but he hadn’t been entirely impressed.

“Mix them,” the waitress echoed. She was the same girl from last night too, and she looked like she’d had a bad day.

“I’m sure you can,” Beckett said quickly. “Right? A little of each. Rick, tell her what flavors you want.”

Was Beckett rising to his defense?

“Could you mix strawberry and banana?” He liked fruit better than chocolate probably. He wasn’t sure.

“Sure, strawberry and banana milkshake,” Kate prompted. “Thank you, Jeannie.”

Oh, so Beckett knew the girl’s name? Huh, he hadn’t realized that. She came here more than she let on.

Right - she’d said she didn’t make meals. No cooking for Beckett.

“It’ll be right out,” Jeannie said, taking back their menus and disappearing.

He turned back to Kate and dropped his hand on her thigh; she was still leaning into him and her eyes were warm on his.

“Thanks,” he said. “You took up for me. She seemed completely reluctant to mix flavors. And hey, you ordered a scotch?”

She cleared her throat with a wince. “For my cough. It helps - burns straight through. I’m not going to have much,” she hastened to add.

“Hey, you’re fine,” he said, and he realized she was worried. Ending up like her father. “It’s a good idea. I read on a website online about something called a hot toddy-”

“That’s basically whiskey, honey, and hot water. Gonna try to recreate one a little.”

“I could probably make that. We could stop by a liquor store-”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. She coughed again and closed her eyes through it, her hand coming to her abs. She must hurt from all that coughing, straining her muscles. “No, I don’t buy - nothing comes home with me.”

“Oh.” She was worried about it. “I understand. But I’d be there,” he added.

She cut her eyes over to his, frowned. “A week? Right. And when you left...”

“Oh.” His heart thudded hard to hear that, a week, like it was a foregone conclusion that he was staying with her the rest of the week. Living with her, for all intents and purposes. Like he belonged in her home.

He liked that a lot.

“Here’s your drinks,” the waitress said suddenly, placing the waters down and then handing over a tumbler of scotch.

Kate thanked Jeannie and then took the glass, raised it to her lips, knocked most of it down with a grimace, gulping it.

He was impressed. She could definitely drink. She shoved the glass away and grabbed the water, started swigging it as she struggled against a cough.

“Burns,” he said sympathetically.

She nodded and lowered her glass, wincing again. “Wow.”

“Been a while?”

“Yeah,” she rasped.

“You think you could end up like him?” he said softly. “Kate, I don’t think you could. You’re too strong. You carry - so much responsibility, such determination.”

She shrugged and didn’t look at him, rubbed her fingers over the rim of her glass. “I just. I know I have that same addictive personality, Rick. I’ve seen a lot of cops take to drinking to dull the edge off, and it’s so easy to start at one after a shift and wind up a drunk.”

He couldn’t reassure her, not when - just as she’d said - he’d only be around for a week. If this was how she coped, then this was how it would have to be.

“Okay,” he said finally. “You do what you gotta do, love. Did the scotch work?”

She finally looked over at him, gave him a tired smile. “Think so. And I feel... um, a little loose. Cold medicine and scotch and those throat perles. Tonight’s gonna be interesting.”

He grinned and leaned in to kiss her, softly, slipping his tongue inside that weariness. She hummed as he kissed her, hummed like she did in bed, and he was beginning to look forward to it - whatever happened tonight.

One scotch? She was hardly drunk. But maybe it had knocked down a few of her walls, maybe it would let him wriggle a little ways inside.

\-----

They ate turkey burgers and he tried not to make her laugh so much, but she kept dissolving into mirth every time he made some innocuous comment. She was pretty when she laughed, she looked young.

He liked sitting beside her, loved it, actually. And she would nudge her knee against his and roll her eyes, or she’d lean into his shoulder like she liked the feel of him right there. She was making it sexual, he was pretty sure, but it was also comfort. It had to be comfort, because it was somehow comforting to him.

And through the laughter, he’d managed to pry a little into her relationship with her father, found a few points they could camp out on without making her defensive.

“Is it just that apartment?” he said. “I can’t - it seems like a shrine.”

She shivered and turned her face away. “Yeah. It’s - something all right.”

He could read between the lines; there was something more to it than just her father staying put in their family home. But he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask if she couldn’t say. Not yet, anyway. “Did you know when it started?”

She chomped on a french fry and knocked her elbow into his ribs, shook her head. “When he started drinking? No, it was just - you know - I didn’t see it coming. We didn’t spend a lot of time together.”

He took the next fry from her fingers, eyeing the ketchup before he popped it into his mouth. “You spend a lot of time together now, huh?”

She sighed. “Yeah. But not what you’d call quality time.”

Ketchup and french fries were actually damn good. “You ever go over there when he’s not - when he doesn’t need your help?”

She squinted at him, eyebrows furrowing. He was pushing at the edges of this thing, but she wasn’t throwing up too many roadblocks. “No. Not - I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Something about the apartment. The photos of their family on the wall, most likely. “I understand,” he said quickly. “But you guys could meet for breakfast on a Saturday or-”

“Rick,” she said wearily, rubbing her forehead and leaning back in the booth.

“Not pushing, love.” He stroked his fingers over the top of her knee and ate another fry. “You do what you need to do.”

“It’s complicated,” she muttered. “My mother... is all over that place.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. She hadn’t told him the details of her mother’s murder, only that it had happened, but he knew she’d become a cop because of it. “I was hoping - different associations, you know? We had this guy in service who was such an asshole, I mean, a real piece of work, commanded a whole unit. The unit was all one big - well. One of his guys asked to be transferred to me. We were all pissed. We thought he’d be an asshole too, right? But he wasn’t. He was actually a really great guy, but no one could see if because he’d always been stuck with that asshole.”

She watched him a moment, something in her eyes. “Where was this?”

“Afghanistan,” he said. “Outside Kandahar.”

“How long were you there?” She trailed a french fry through the ketchup and then shifted her gaze to him. “This time. You said you re-upped after September 11th.”

“I did. Uh. I re-upped the day it happened.” Shit. He’d told her that. He’d forgotten telling her that. But she had remembered. “My father kinda - he put in a word and got me assigned to Special Forces. Where he was attached at the time. It was - I was part of a group that did a kind of - I don’t know, a program. I’m not sure... not sure I should be telling you this.”

She laughed, tilted her head. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s - I guess it’s not like the job itself is classified.” He could say some of it, he didn’t have to tell her everything. “There was a group of us, doing some particular missions out there. Military Intelligence.”

“Oh,” she murmured, lifting her eyebrows. “So you were a black ops guy. Special Forces. And what are you now? You keep using the past tense, Rick. I thought you said you were assigned to some base in Ireland.”

He opened his mouth but absolutely nothing came to mind. He was supposed to charm her into forgetting all about his lapse, but he had nothing.

Holy fucking shit. He’d told her way too much.

“Rick?” she laughed. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to tell me. Goodness knows I don’t tell you everything. It’s not a big deal. We can still have some pretty fantastic sex.”

He shook his head, closed his mouth. He wanted to tell her, wanted to just come right out with it. But he’d already said too much, given her too much of the truth. “I’m still - it’s the same job,” he said finally. “But a little different circumstances.”

“Okay,” she said easily, squeezing his knee. “Hey, baby, don’t sweat it. You’re fine. I’m sure you’ve had girls freak out over secrets being kept, but that’s not me. Let it lie.”

He swallowed but it still felt wrong. Her not knowing he was a damn spy. It seemed a necessary element to their relationship, that it was something that she ought to know.

When he left at the end of the week, he would be deep cover for a year or more in Ireland.

That was something she deserved to know.

“Hey, drink your milkshake, love,” she murmured, drawing the cup towards him. “Poor Jeannie went to a lot of work to make it.” She was smiling at him, her eyes tender, but his heart had stopped.

Love.

He couldn’t react. Oh God, he couldn’t draw a single bit of attention to the way it’d slipped out of her mouth. It was just her picking up on his own speech patterns, but it sounded so easy, so right, so good.

“Yeah, it’s - good,” he rasped, taking the milkshake and putting his mouth to the straw.

They could do this. Whatever it was they were doing - it could work. He could figure something out and he could convince her to let him back inside when he came home for weekends or holidays or whatever. However he could manage it.

Long-distance girlfriend. Cover girlfriend made real. Asset in the city. Ties to the NPYD. There were ways he could spin this to anyone who mattered.

He put the milkshake back down on the table and leaned in to kiss her, his tongue cold against her fevered lips. She hummed and licked the corner of his mouth before giving him just as good, sensual and rich, something electric in it that made his chest tighten.

She was singular. No one had ever affected him like this.

He’d never wanted to disobey all the rules just be near a woman, just to have the chance to touch her.

She broke their kiss with a grin, nudged him away. “It’s getting late. You coming home with me, soldier?”

“Better be. Got nowhere else to go.”

“Then pay for us. I’ll leave the tip.”

\-----

This time she didn’t even need convincing. She brought him to the subway and touched him scandalously on their ride home. She led him up out of the tunnel to the world above, and even held his hand.

At her building, she was feeling up his ass. Inside, and up those stairs, she shot him sultry looks only faintly tinged with exhaustion.

She opened her door, walked over the threshold. “You coming?” she rasped, her voice throaty. Sensuous. It made him think things, hope things, want even more.

It was everything that made his cock throb. Everything about her tonight made him crazy, that fucking mouth. Not just the images he had of her swallowing him, not just how she used it to tease and seduce. But everything she’d said, the way she’d defended him to the waitress, how she’d called him love, how she’d released some of her own secrets to him.

“Coming,” he scraped out, finally unsticking his feet from the floor and heading after her down her hallway. She was shedding her coat, but he caught up to her and grabbed her around the waist, made her pause. “Let me, love.”

She went still; he skimmed his hands along the tops of her thighs, lifted to ruck up her shirt from the waistband of her pants. “Your skin is so smooth.” And hot with fever; she was burning, and he could feel her heart beating so hard under his hands. “You smell good, like honey.”

“Cough drops,” she murmured, a little laugh in her throat. But it hitched and caught into a cough, and he waited her out, his thumbs caressing her ribs and holding her up, feeling the hard knot of her abdominal muscles.

Straining. Working. No wonder she’d been holding her sides earlier tonight. It hadn’t occurred to him just how much work and stress a body could be under during sickness.

But she’d cut off his balls if he suggested something other than following through with all her husky promises from the subway.

He buried his nose in her hair. “Mmm, honey and milk and your skin - like blossoms opened in the humidity.” He licked her neck and she sucked in a breath, reached her hands up to clasp over his at her hips.

“You gonna tease, or you gonna help me out of these clothes?” she murmured.

“Can’t I do both?” He skimmed his hands up her bare torso, brought her turtleneck up over her head. She shivered in the cool air, her skin bright with fever, and he nudged her towards the bathroom, walking her forward.

“Let me get my shoes off,” she mumbled. “No, no, let me-”

“I know,” he chuckled. “I got it. No shoes in the bathroom. I’m taking mine off too.”

She huffed something at him and bent over to get at her shoelaces, but he gripped her arm and pulled her up again.

“I said, I got it,” he told her again, dropping to his knees. He untied her laces quickly, loosened her boots, and then tapped her knee to get her to lift her foot. She balanced with her hands on his shoulders, and he turned his head to kiss her wrist.

She kind of melted down into him, shirtless and shoeless with her black pants still on, her thighs spreading across his and straddling him. Her face was pink with fever but her eyes were intent on his, caressing, and her arms tightened around his neck.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

He leaned in and touched his mouth to hers, the heat of her racing through him like wild fire. Her kiss was electric, intimate, her tongue coming out to play with his. He felt her fingers stroking through his hair, her thighs squeezing his hips, and he wrapped his arms around her and stood up.

She gasped and laughed, hanging onto him, and he walked them through the doorway and into the bathroom.

“Still want that shower?” he murmured, holding her tighter and nuzzling her jaw as he spoke. Her skin rippled under his lips.

“No. Hot bath. You said we could play.”

“Yeah, love. We can play.”

She touched her tongue to the corner of his eye and sucked lightly on his cheekbone. “Then run me a bath, soldier.”

\-----

For a second, with his cock hard and at attention as he sat in six inches of bath water, he felt like a complete idiot.

What was he doing here? In a porcelain clawfoot bathtub with a girl who was only twenty-two-?

And then she stepped into the bathtub with her back to him, and she sank down over his lap and moaned, her head falling to his shoulder.

Fuck.

She moaned like a girl of twenty-two, but in a way that promised so much more. Her hands skimmed over his forearms and brought him around to embrace her; she was burning up, liquid fire, and her ass was grinding down hard against his cock.

“Sit up, baby,” he murmured, shifting her higher up against his abs so his cock was free. So she could play. “There we go.”

She hummed something he didn’t catch and then she pressed her thighs together, trapping his now hard-as-fuck cock between her legs.

“Sh-shit,” he stuttered, caught off guard. He could feel the muscles in her thighs gripping him and his head hit the back of the tub, water sloshing around them.

She chuckled darkly and squirmed, her thighs pressing together and making his cock pulse in her grip. He was afraid he was bruising her, so tightly did he grasp her hips, teeth grinding through the fucking amazing pressure of her clamped around him.

“I like playing with you,” she laughed.

“I - fuck - I’m liking it too.” He got in a full breath and tried to ease his hands from off her waist, pressed his palms into her back instead. He’d meant to have it like this so he could work her off lying against his chest and she could see how hard his cock was for her, but this was - fuck - this was a different kind of torture.

He wanted to see her face.

“Turn around,” he rasped. “Kate. Need you to turn around and take me.”

She released his cock from between her thighs, pulling her knees up, but she only turned to look at him over her shoulder. Her hair was in a gorgeous tumble down her back, still half-pinned in its bun but falling down completely from where he’d put his hands in it.

“Turn around and take you where?” she said.

She thought she was so cute.

He growled and leaned forward, attacked her mouth with all the ferocity that was echoed in his hard cock. He lifted his hands to her breasts and squeezed, kneading hard and deep, pinching and rolling her nipples between his fingers.

She groaned and arched into him, her breathing hoarse, her hips restless. He went after her relentlessly, sucking on her neck, licking around her collarbones, rubbing his groin into her ass.

“Oh, oh, yes,” she moaned. “More. Like that, baby.”

He gentled on her breasts just to torment her, skimming his fingers over those hard nubs of her nipples, barely there, scratching with his nails to feel her hips jerk.

“More,” she demanded, but it was mostly breath.

“Then turn around and fucking take me, Kate Beckett.”

Immediately, she scrambled around in the tub, water sloshing and burning across his body, and she spread her thighs over his lap and ground her sex against his cock. “Like this?” she hissed, her teeth nipping his jaw and then sucking on his neck.

“I want inside you,” he groaned. “Please, baby. Let me push inside you.”

“Not yet. You said we’d play,” she whispered.

“Fuck, I can’t - I’m gonna come,” he admitted, groaning as she rocked into him. “Let me come inside you and then we’ll play all you want, love.”

“What if I want to make you come?” she hummed. Her tongue was doing wicked things to his neck, her hands coasting up and down his sides. But it was her bare wet thighs against his, it was that place between her legs that teased him so mercilessly. “Make you come like this. Hot and sticky between us.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. His hips were jerking up into the narrow space between their bodies, his arms tightening around her. “Fuck, Kate. Kate, I need you.”

“Maybe I want you to need me so much you can’t control yourself. Maybe I want to make you come before you ever get a chance to be inside me.”

“Please,” he panted, pressing his thumbs into her inside thighs, trying in vain to make her as hot and frantic as he was. “I can’t - can’t control how it is with you. I’m dying, Kate. I want you so desperately I’m gonna lose it.”

She exalted, a little dangerous growl in her throat. And then she sealed her mouth over his, sucking on his tongue. It diverted him from the ache in his cock just long enough for her hand to close around him.

And angle him inside her.

“Fuck!” His head crashed back to the porcelain as she pushed herself down on his cock, her body hot and tight and perfect, so fucking perfect. Kate laid out over him and put her hands beside his head on the tub, her mouth nuzzling in against his ear.

“That’s right. I won’t make you waste it. Now fuck me hard, Rick.”

He wrapped his arms around her and drew his knees up, pressed his back to the tub and fucking tunneled his way up inside her. She started moaning in his ear with every thrust, her breasts rubbing him raw, and he couldn’t wait, couldn’t hold it back.

He orgasmed fiercely, roaring out his climax. He pumped inside her like it went on forever, forever, that hot, wet fist of her sex gripping him and taking it, milking him, dragging every last rope of come out of his painfully tortured cock.

“That’s it,” she growled in his ear, rubbing herself off as he lost control. “That’s what I want, oh - oh God. All of it, it’s all mine. So hard, oh, fuck, you’re still so hard for me.”

\-----

He sucked in breaths that just wouldn’t come, her body over his and her fingers stroking his chest, flicking his nipple around and around.

He croaked her name but it barely sounded coherent; she hummed and turned her head to kiss the hollow of his throat. “You’re still hard,” she murmured. “I just made you come-”

“Fucking intense,” he rasped.

“Made you come fucking intense,” she hummed, “mmm, I like that. But you’re still hard enough to stay inside me.”

“Did you-?” he said, clearing his throat, waving a weary hand at her. He might be hard enough to keep his place, but he wasn’t sure he could fucking move if she hadn’t - by some miracle - orgasmed too.

“Oh, I got mine, love,” she laughed. Her nails scratched his nipple and his hips jerked, making her laugh again. “Feels dirty to make you come like that.”

“Feels pretty fucking dirty having it done to me. Fuck. I’m... fuck.”

She grinned - her whole face lit up with it - and if this is what uncontrolled and intense got for him, then he’d let her tear him apart every fucking time. Shit, he could barely get it back together.

“You are fucked,” she said, biting her bottom lip as if she wanted to laugh again but wouldn’t to spare his feelings.

“No, no. Go ahead and laugh at me, baby. Go for it. I don’t even fucking care. That was intense. I have absolutely never had that experience in my life.”

He dragged his arms up around her and the water shivered and tumbled down her back. He realized her hair was soaking wet, her skin raising up goose bumps.

“You good?” he murmured. “Cold?”

“Little. You feel good though.”

“Bed? Or... fuck, I’m just not really with it, Beckett. You might want to take over from here.”

She lifted up, propping her elbows on him. “Oh, yeah? That good, huh?”

“Oh, shit. You don’t even need to ask, do you? I hope to fuck you don’t need to ask.”

She tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows, like a girl, so pleased with herself, and then she wriggled her hips.

He gasped. “Fuck. You’re - shit.”

“You’re still hard inside me,” she hummed. “You forget that, baby?”

“I - I may have - I’m remembering it now,” he growled, wrapping his arms tighter around her.

“You want to slide out and head for the bed, or you want to do it right here?”

He could really just go right here, fuck her again, but at least with a mattress, there’d be some measure of gentleness. Surely. He’d slow down, get a chance to put his mouth on her. Oh, fuck, he could almost taste her.

“Bed,” he said finally.

And maybe he could drag an orgasm out of her so hard, so intense, that it knocked her out for long enough to fall asleep. She needed rest. He couldn’t forget that.


	9. Chapter 9

The alarm went off - after a comment about being controlling, he’d had to surreptitiously replace the battery and plug it back in when she hadn’t been looking. The alarm was a hook around his awareness, and the morning rippled into place before him.

Kate was lying on top of him, soaked to the skin in sweat, and she wasn’t moving to turn off the alarm. She had made very specific threats last night about what she’d do to him if he wasn’t on board with her doing her job.

“Kate?” He touched the back of her neck and she shivered, moaned, buried her face against his chest. “Hey, Kate. Babe, your skin is clammy.” She felt damp and not because of their fun night. He should’ve let her sleep more. “Kate? The alarm’s going off.”

She drew her arms into her chest and pressed her forehead to his sternum like she was mentally gathering her strength. Then she lifted away from him and slid to the mattress, turned the alarm off, and got out of bed.

He didn’t like it. “Kate. Maybe-”

“I’m okay. Better,” she rasped, disappearing down the hallway in his t-shirt.

She wasn’t better, no, but maybe it meant her fever had broken, finally. He knew the drill by now; he got out of bed and tugged on the sweatpants he’d found at the back of her closet. They were tight and she’d laughed at him last night when he’d pulled them on, but they worked.

He headed quietly down the hall, the sounds of the shower echoing off the walls and covering his footsteps. In her kitchen, he pulled out the leftover milkshakes and poured her coffee, fixed it just like she’d had it yesterday. He was hoping to tempt her into taking the shake with her to work, just for some good vitamins and calcium, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

Richard found the daytime cold medicine, popped out two pills, and he brought it and her coffee back to the bedroom. The water had just shut off and he heard her stepping out, the squeak of toes on tile, the cough she still had - and so much worse in the morning when she first woke up.

When she came into her bedroom with the towel tucked into her breasts, he held the coffee out to her wordlessly. She took it, looking just as weary and beaten down as she had when she’d woken this morning and buried her face in his chest. He knew she wasn’t about to skip work, not her, so he figured he should do what he could to make it easier.

Like not argue.

She sipped her coffee, eyes closing, swaying on the spot, and he couldn’t hold himself back from her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in against him, cupping her neck with the other hand. She came to him, the mug faintly burning his skin, her arms curled up to her chest, holding her coffee preciously.

He kissed the top of her head, wished desperately she’d just stay home.

As if she could sense it, Kate struggled out of his arms and patted his chest with her free hand. “Thanks for coffee.”

“Pills are by the alarm clock,” he answered.

She lifted on her toes and brushed a glancing kiss along the corner of his mouth. “You’re being good to me.” She moved on to the bedside table, popped the pills into her mouth, washed them down with coffee before setting it aside and opening her closet door.

He took that as his cue, and he moved out to the kitchen to fix his own coffee. He could make her eggs this morning too. Not an omelette, since that hadn’t seemed exactly right - judging by her face the other day. Maybe that was too formal, or not cool. He needed to keep it low-key. Some scrambled eggs. He could do that.

He had something to prove.

\-----

Wednesday wasn’t any different, except in degree. It rained for most of the day, and she looked more miserable than ever. She was cold, he could tell, and she kept holding herself stiffly, like something hurt.

It took everything in him to not run up to her and make her come home with him, throw her onto the back of his motorcycle and take her away. Even Royce noticed - Richard saw him talking to her more than once, quietly, drawing her aside - but Royce couldn’t get anywhere with her. She was completely closed to him.

It was heartbreaking in a way Rick couldn’t fathom, just how little she allowed out and how very little in. She was determined to be inviolate, and she was, she was, but for the times when Rick had managed to find a way in, find some minuscule crack in her armor. He’d somehow leveraged her open, somehow slid inside. He didn’t know how, he just could see clearly he’d been the only one.

Oh God, he was her only one.

No one else saw her the way he’d been allowed to see her. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t the way she ought to live - not her, not someone as amazing as Kate. It was his own life, but it shouldn’t be hers. No one saw him either. That was his job, to be unseen, unknown, the definition of anonymous. His father had created JR Black, built him into this exact persona, this machine of a real man. There had been nothing like this before, his life was the CIA; there had been nothing else for his father to know.

Well. For a few years now, he’d turned to Eastman first rather than his father. As his commander in the army, and then as his support personnel, Eastman always seemed to see more of him than Richard had been comfortable with.

And now Kate had happened, was happening. She saw him; he seemed to spill himself out to her, secrets and truths and sentiment. He needed her in order for his self to be real. It was as if he had never existed in the world before her.

She’d brought him fire. Spark, passion, reality.

And yet, as he followed her on Wednesday, he could see how reserved, how shut down she was. Where was the woman who had the fire to swallow throat perles in an experiment to see how deep she could throat him? Where was the wickedly clever warrior who had convinced him to ride in a GPS-tracked taxi cab and then played hide and seek with the cameras in the city just for his sake?

Loyalty, ambition, capability, intelligence - she masked it all. She was stone.

But he’d seen better. He’d seen her. And it gave him a hard kernel of hope, like a thorn in his side. Hope that he could be good for her, that he could celebrate those parts of her soul she protected so fiercely, that he could do something for her that the whole damn rest of the world was overlooking.

Starting with lunch? Maybe. He’d followed them around for two days now and he could guess their schedule. Plus the rain had abated and catching them outside seemed a better choice than the corner grocery where she’d told him to leave her alone.

When the squad car made its last round of the neighborhood and headed back for their usual stretch of diners and coffee shops and convenience stores, Rick pulled ahead and made for the deli place she liked. He ordered a cup of chicken noodle soup, a half a turkey sandwich, and he even grabbed a pastrami on rye for Royce. He ordered himself a hot sandwich, thinking he could eat her turkey if she wanted the warm one instead, and then a tray of coffees to go.

He was carrying everything and just coming out of the diner when he saw the squad car park in front of the pharmacy. Beckett was saying something quick and defensive as she got out, shaking her head at Royce still in the car, and then she went inside the pharmacy.

Royce stayed in the car and Rick ambled up slowly. He stood well clear of the man’s blind spots and rapped on the back of the trunk as he approached.

Royce must have seen him in the rearview mirror because he got out and eyed Richard warily. “You brought lunch? She’s gonna hate it.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Brought you something if you want it. She might eat if you do. Leaves her less of a choice.”

Royce’s jaw worked, hands on his hips, but he finally sighed and reached out. “Fine. She’ll - shit. I guess tricking her into it is better than her refusing to eat again.”

“She refused to eat yesterday?” Rick asked sharply. He’d seen them go in.

“She ate maybe four bites.” Royce shook his head. “She doesn’t listen to me any more.”

“I took her out for dinner,” he gave. The man was just as worried as Rick but seemed to have even less of a right. (He’d said no.) Richard handed over the bag with Royce’s pastrami sandwich and they unfolded everything on the hood of the squad car. “She ate a burger, fries. A whole milkshake. Made up for it, I think. Calories-wise.”

“She needs to eat,” Royce grunted. He shot Rick a suspicious look at the pastrami and too late Rick realized he’d seen Royce order that yesterday. Fuck. Royce glanced up and down the street and then his eyes hardened. “She’s gonna fucking kill you if she finds out.”

“What?” he said nonchalantly. But he knew Royce knew.

“The damn motorcycle. You’re good. She noticed yesterday once, but it was out of the corner of her eye. But I saw you today. The rain makes traffic hard to predict; you pulled ahead of us to get here before we did.”

Rick didn’t admit it, but that was two mistakes. And probably another couple on Monday. If Beckett weren’t so sick, she’d have seen him for sure. “If I thought I could make her stay, I’d put her on the back of the bike and take her home.”

“She has a Harley, you know,” Royce offered, taking a big bite of his sandwich. “In a garage somewhere. She rides it to work a lot.”

Not this week she hadn’t, probably because she was sick. “I didn’t see a helmet,” he said cautiously.

“Keeps it with the bike. So if you did kidnap her, you’d have to go to the garage where she keeps it to get that helmet.”

Or just fucking buy her a new one. “Could she leave halfway through her shift?”

“No,” Royce said. “You don’t want to do that. I was fucking kidding, man. You do that to her and she will cut off your balls before you can-”

“Richard?”

He glanced behind him and saw Beckett coming out of the pharmacy, a bag of cough drops and a bottle of throat spray. She’d used the perles every night so far, and they worked, but she hadn’t wanted to be that medicated on the job.

“Brought you lunch,” he said. “Saw the car while I was out.”

Royce grunted something that sounded like bullshit and Rick revised his earlier opinion of the man: he would throw Rick under the bus if it made him look better. They were definitely not in this together.

“Lunch?” he asked her, trying to sound enticing. “Got some soup. It’s supposed to be a miracle cure.” He wriggled his eyebrows and grinned at her, came forward to hook his finger in her belt, tug her closer. She huffed and dislodged him, but she still came.

“Lunch. Soup, huh?”

“And half a turkey sandwich. Or mine if you’d rather have hot. Or I can run back down and get you something else-”

“You do too much,” she warned softly. She took the bag from his hand, darted a look to Royce, and then came in and kissed Rick quickly. “You do too much, baby.”

He shrugged, but his chest was tight and fluttering. “Not even close to what you deserve.”

She pushed away from him and put the bag on the hood of the car, the police dispatch chattering in the background.

She opened up the bag and pulled out the soup, handed over his sandwich to him with a small smile, almost like an apology. He smiled back and leaned his hip against the door of the squad car, opened his sandwich while she unearthed a spoon from the bottom of the bag.

He risked a glance at Royce and saw the flash of surprise in the man’s eyes, followed swiftly by remorse.

You said no , he thought fiercely. And I said yes.

He leaned in and brushed a kiss against Kate’s temple, both as claim and supplication.

She gave him a look for it, flicked her fingers against his nipple in retaliation, but she didn’t cut off his balls.

Progress.

\------

He kissed her before she left with Royce in the squad car; he just leaned in through the open door and cupped her neck and took the kiss from her before she could say no to him. She tasted like honey and chicken soup; she made a soft little noise in the back of her throat that had him rebelling at the idea of letting her go.

But he did. He let her go.

"Dinner?" he murmured, looking too hopeful.

Her eyes narrowed, but she glanced sideways at Royce. "Same time," she said, as if giving in to him. She patted his cheek and he knew - of course he did - that so much of this was showing up Royce, look what I got, I don't need you, but he was glad to do it. He was grateful to be the one, and if it allowed him closer than she might have given, so much the better.

"We could go for dessert?" he said cautiously, wondering how far he could push it.

"Maybe," she said quietly. Her eyes looked weary for an instant, a quick flash, and he cursed himself for pushing.

She needed to just go home. Shut up, Richard. "You need anything, Kate, just-"

"I don't need anything," she said firmly. Her lips pressed together and he knew the show was over. He stood up again and moved to shut the door, but she snagged it before he could help, closed it herself. But the windows were rolled down and she grabbed a fistful of his jacket, held him there. "Richard."

He paused, warned by her tone.

"If I see that motorcycle for the rest of the day, I will hurt you," she said quietly.

Fuck.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, swallowing past the despair that opened in him, black and dark. The whole afternoon... not knowing where she was, if she was okay. But he nodded. "I - I understand."

"And I don't mean the good kind of hurt," she warned. She released his jacket and withdrew her arm, said something to Royce that caused the car to pull out of the space, merge with traffic.

His heart dropped.

She was gone.

And he wasn't allowed to follow.

\-----

For the rest of the day, Richard worked on his own damn job, hating every minute of it.

At least until he got sucked into the problems and entanglements that surrounded the mission. Until he got his head in Michael Leary's brain, saw what his cover identity had seen, forged the bonds of terrorist and gun smuggler and all-around rough guy. He practiced the softer, Americanized version of the dialect, and then the tougher brogue, alternating between them until he had an ear for what a man might sound like whose father was Irish but mother American.

And an American girlfriend.

He was already finding ways to adapt the cover ID to include Kate Beckett, and it helped that she was from New York, where quite a lot of Irish expats came to stay, and that her name was Kate. He could do a lot with that - it had legs, as they said, it would run.

He usually picked up a girl first thing on a mission, an easy one if he was careful enough - a girl who had no aspirations for the life of the crew, a girl who'd make a convenient excuse if he had to ditch or if he didn't look hardass enough. There were certain things not even a CIA agent could get away with, and a girlfriend made for a perfect beard.

But he didn't want to even look. He'd have to fuck her to keep up the ruse - he'd tried the Catholic angle once and only gotten his cock grabbed and teased until finally he'd had to fend off some kind of macho gang rape scenario the assholes had wanted to pull. He still, to this day, wasn't sure they’d only been playing around.

So a girl usually helped.

His girl would just be on the other side of the ocean. He'd keep her picture on him like they all did, kiss it before a big job, pray to her like a saint just as every other guy did. He already had it planned out.

When he checked the time, he was a little early, but it would be okay. He took the motorcycle down to the Twelfth Precinct and parked it a few blocks down, figuring now that she knew, she'd ride with him. Or maybe she'd drive - that would be fun - and he could tell her he'd wanted to see what her job was like, where she went. He could maybe even talk about his army experience to soften her up, tell her about how his men had died despite everything, and maybe she wouldn't look at him like he was walking on thin ice.

He made his approach at the side doors where she usually came out, and tonight there was a lot of activity, a kind of quick efficiency that made him think there'd been some kind of big arrest. He'd checked the news on the television a few times that afternoon but he hadn't recently; nothing interesting as of four hours ago, but he might have missed it.

He suddenly had a terrible feeling, standing just down the sidewalk out of the cameras' range. It worked through him like a worm in his heart, bruising him until he knew. He was certain. Something had happened to her.

Something had happened. And he'd been at his safe house daydreaming about taking her to Ireland for a long weekend like a fucking asshole lovebird, like life was normal at all, and something had happened to her.

He tilted his head back to the dark sky and closed his eyes, struggling with it, feeling - for the first time since he was a fucking five year old - that nothing he did would save things, nothing could make things right again.

He didn't even know where to start looking. The hospitals. Royce would be there, fuck, he hoped - hoped Royce was okay enough to be there. Her father? Maybe, but she'd-

"Hey, you look sick. Are you okay?"

His head snapped down to see Kate Beckett walking down the sidewalk, still wan, still exhausted, but here. Alive. He took two strides to meet her, in range of the cameras be damned, and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up off her feet with a rush of relief.

"Kate," he muttered.

She squirmed in his arms and finally- "Ow. Rick. You're gonna have to let me down, my shoulder-"

He dropped her, sick horror washing over him. "You were - you're hurt. Who hurt you?"

"I'm fine. Just a graze. I wasn't paying close attention," she muttered.

"A graze?" he rasped, staring at her. "No. Kate."

"Holy shit, you look like I've died. You do not get to look at me like that, Richard - ? - Richard-” She gave him a murderous look. “Shit, I don't even know your last name. You do not get to do this. You have no right to worry about me. This is my job."

He sucked futilely at the air for his breath, his hands still gripping her by the hips, and he hauled her back into his arms. A little less fiercely maybe, but not with less emotion. He had to be cool, he had to. "Not many people in my life to start with," he said roughly. He'd meant to go with the whole army thing, how he lost men, but he found himself gutted out and spilling it all over her. "No one really that... I just.. I won't apologize for wanting you. Alive. Not into necromancy."

“It’s necrophilia, you asshole. Mancy is bringing me back from the dead.”

He grunted. “I was using the correct word. I wouldn’t waste time copulating with a corpse. I would bring you back to life, Beckett.”

She huffed something against his cheek and tried to untangle herself from him, but he was having a hard time letting her go. “Richard.”

And no last name. But what last name; he'd dodged it but it would come up again, she deserved to fucking know a last name, but he didn't - he didn't have one. He just didn't. He might have once, before his father took custody of him, but he had no idea what it might have been. And while he was Black’s son, that wasn’t a real name either.

It felt wrong to give her one of the made up names his father had created, as if pulling her into those lies stained her somehow. He should have his own fucking name by now though, shouldn't he? Everyone else in the Company gave out Jones or White or Smith. He should have a fucking go-to name.

He wanted something to give her by the time this week was over.

"Are we doing dinner or are you going to keep moping like a child?" she chided, pulling out of his grip. "Because I'm hungry and I thought I'd tell you all about how I saved a girl's life today, but if you'd rather-"

"No, no," he croaked, hurriedly catching her hand. Something of his joy at seeing her came back to him, filled the weak places that terror had made. "Dinner. I want to hear all about your heroics, Beckett. Which happened after you made me leave."

"Well, couldn't have you doing the heroics," she murmured, and her voice was softer now. "You're off-duty. You'd be court-martialed." Her fingers laced through his and she nudged him towards Remy's. "Besides, baby, it really is just a scratch. It's nothing. I'm sure I'll get worse in the years to come. You know how it is. You always figure a bullet will be the thing that gets you."

He did, horrifyingly enough. He knew exactly how it was.

It was just... she was sick. That made all the difference for some reason. Because she shouldn't have been at work, because if he'd been better at her, he'd have been there to help. Because she was just fucking sick, and she couldn't even breathe let alone protect and serve.

But he had no right to protest.

\-----

Sometime in the middle of their walk to the diner - where he was relegated to his own side of the booth this time - he started to worry that 'just a scratch' in Beckett language actually meant something more serious. He studied her as she ordered them a Whiskey BBQ burger - it sounded seriously awful, but he was beginning to trust her with food - and she never lifted her arm higher than her shoulder.

She kept it tucked pretty close to her side too, but she'd been doing some of that before due to straining a few muscles coughing. So it was hard to judge.

When Jeannie was gone - no milkshakes today because they were headed out for dessert to celebrate, Kate had demanded - he leaned in and caught the back of her knee under the table. "Tell me about your heroics, Beckett."

She grinned, a flash of pride that absolutely floored him. And humbled him too - because he got to see it, how much she loved her job, how she craved being useful like that. Her own mother hadn't been saved, but she got to save others - was that it?

"We got a call around one," she said quickly. "A 911 hang-up. We get a lot of those in our area - we have some low-income housing - HUD homes - and they have a tendency to have more 911 dropped calls."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Language barrier is some of it, the rest is - statistics, unfortunately." She shot him a rueful look and he remembered that both of her parents were lawyers; she'd grown up on the upper middle class side of things, her father's apartment was Upper East Side and nicely appointed. She was probably still battling some white guilt, the princess turned police officer.

"Okay, so you got a call for a 911 hang-up. You have to investigate, I guess."

"Yeah. We got to the property - an apartment building, six floor walk-up. Royce and I went up, but we didn't have weapons drawn. Not supposed to in situations like that, you know. You’re just making a house call. Not there to shoot some poor, unarmed kid."

"Makes sense," he admitted.

"We get to the apartment on the fifth, near the back, and we hear absolute horrendous yelling. Both sides, really going at it. The cursing. I know some Russian, and a little Spanish, but I don't know what this was."

"Eastern European," he said easily. "Czech or Polish. A lot of immigrants after Bosnia too." Those were some of the few languages people couldn’t identify even when they knew some others.

She paused, a flicker of curiosity over her face. He'd been studying up on Eastern Europe for a long time, trying to get into his father's section and out of these crap runs to Turkey. He needed some stability and long-range goals, and a permanent selection to the Eastern European section would allow him to run missions over an extended period of time. Actually see the fruits of his labor, work for a good he could be the architect of. Ireland was a step in the right direction, but mostly it was his father’s way of saying let’s see if you can keep from fucking this up. A second chance at Ireland.

"Yeah, okay. Czech. I could see that. Or Polish." She tilted her head and lifted her feet up onto his knees under the table. "You're gonna have to explain that to me sometime - how you know the ethnic breakdown of the city but you don't know what streets are parallel to Lexington."

"I'll explain sometime," he said casually, grinning back at her. "So your Czechs were fighting."

"To wake the dead, seriously. We identified ourselves four or five times, but they were loud, and there was a baby screaming - I thought a baby, turned out to be a five year old boy."

He had a flash of discomfort even though it wasn't even about him, but she missed it and kept going, her face animated up as she told the story.

"We entered the apartment in formation and here's this huge woman - shit, Richard, she was a beast, an Amazon. I wouldn't say obese, just massive. So tall and wide and - she obviously had everyone in that place completely terrified of her. She turned to us and thundered. I had no idea what she was saying."

He chuckled because he could see she liked it; she liked mixing it up and going up against massive women who were terrorizing their families. She liked having the chance to level the playing field for the underdog.

"The boy was sobbing and the dad - or boyfriend, I don't know - he's screaming at the kid because he's getting screamed at by the woman, and the boy runs to me, and he practically knocks me over hiding behind me, safety finally, right? He was crying right into my coat. I had contrails of snot down my back."

Rick laughed, both because of her word choice - contrails, really? - and also because it was funny, Beckett getting stuck with some snotty kid.

"Poor guy," she said then, her eyes losing focus as she glanced out the window. "He was probably as sick as I am - he felt feverish. At least I didn't give him this cold."

"And then what? You said you saved a girl's life."

"The boyfriend pulled out a gun when we went in to restrain the woman," she said flatly.

Rick froze. "What?"

"While my back was turned,” she admitted, a bite in her words as she returned her eyes to him. “He dragged the daughter out into the living room by her hair, and he was threatening everyone with the gun and Royce is standing in front of the Amazon to keep her back, away - she would've flattened me; she nearly flattened him. And he says to me, You gotta do this."

"What about the five year old?"

"Oh, I'd already pushed him outside into the hallway by that point. Poor kid, sobbing, hysterical. Slammed the door in his face. Nothing else to do. I’d turned my back on the skinny guy. My fault. I had to leave the kid out there."

His chest tightened. “What’d you do?” Royce had left it up to her? No help at all?

"I started talking the boyfriend into giving up the gun, bit by bit, I was getting there, Rick. I really had him. I could see it in his eyes. And then the woman got past Royce, charged the skinny guy, and Royce and I were in the middle of it and - it was a blur really, it was so fast - I heard the gun more than felt it."

He had her feet on his knees as she sat back in the booth, but her eyes were on the window again, far away from him. He closed his fingers around her ankles, but he was met with the thick leather of her boots and it wasn't nearly enough. He wanted skin. He wanted a tangible reminder she was still alive. "And then?"

"And then I had the gun and the boyfriend was apologizing over and over in broken English and the woman was screaming at him and I thought - Royce is going to hit her if she doesn't shut up - and then I realized I was bleeding."

"Where'd he get you?"

"The gun just went off," she said, almost defensively. These were her people, her route, her city; she was more compassionate than she had any right to be. "Got my arm - my shoulder. It stings, but it's okay."

"And the boy outside?" he said. The girl she'd saved, but the boy alone in the hallway with a shitty mother...

"Actually he ran in and threw himself on me when it all was over. I don't know. We arrested mom and boyfriend and the boy rode with me up front in the second car. The girl came after; they were both put into Child Services."

She looked deflated all of the sudden, exhausted, and she still hadn't said if she'd gotten medical treatment, if anyone had even looked at it. He knew triage from his training and he'd look at it when they got home. Clean it out.

"You saved the boy too," he said quietly. "Not just the girl with a gun to her head. You saved a little boy. He'll never forget that ride with you, finally feeling safe."

She turned her head to him with a brilliant, too-knowing look of those gorgeous eyes. "He will?"

Rick swallowed. Fuck this. He got up and her feet dropped; he slid around to her side of the booth and wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her in against him.

"He will," he rasped, kissing her temple and closing his eyes. "He'll never forget you."

\-----

After dinner, she looked better for the food, the rest. She was still holding her arm carefully, and he figured it was bruised or something, maybe even down to the bone. It was fine; it’d be okay. She was alive, contrary to his stupid panic attack, and she’d had a normal domestic disturbance call. He was sure she’d have crazier stories than that if not already.

He had. And he had a story he could tell her.

“When I was in Ireland the first time,” he started, “I met this kid. He was about ten or eleven and he followed me around everywhere.”

“Yeah?” She had a smile for him as they stepped out of Remy’s, and she took his hand without him prompting, their fingers lacing together. “What’s his name?”

“Name was Colm. Good kid. I gave him odd jobs to do for me - you know? Run errands in town, pick up packages.”

“Oh, no,” she said quietly. Her eyes were tender and she came in close, brushed her chin against his shoulder. “What happened to him?”

How the hell did she know that? “Remember what I said about the company you keep? How you get painted with the same brush? He was labeled a traitor because he was running around carrying shit for me. They killed him.”

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry,” she murmured. She pressed her lips to his shoulder. “What happened. To the boy. Colm.”

“They slit his throat and left him on my doorstep,” he said finally. “I didn’t meant to - I was only going to say that I know when a kid latches on to you...”

“I know,” she said softly. “Rick. God, how many stories like that do you have?”

He winced and glanced over at her. “Yeah, too many for polite company, I think.”

“Good thing I’m not polite company.”

“Well, being a cop doesn’t quite make you-”

“Actually, I was thinking about my mom,” she said with a little shrug. “I’m always thinking about my mom. How she was murdered and left like... like we found her.”

“What happened to your mom?” he asked, bringing her hand up against his chest to keep her close. But she didn’t pull away, she only walked with him along the sidewalk towards their coffee shop.

“She was - I don’t even know, Rick. That’s the - she was killed in our home. Dragged, dragged from the kitchen chair with a rope or - strangled. But she got free, she kicked or - there was a struggle. The kitchen was wrecked, the dining room, lamps overturned in the living room. And then she ran down the hall toward the back bedroom and he shot her.”

He couldn’t - couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t... “Oh, God. Kate.”

“There was - blood everywhere.” Her hand squeezed around his with a strength that gripped his heart. “Four shots. Center of mass. Like - a professional. But why the rope, the attempt at strangulation, why did my mom let him into the apartment, why...”

“Why,” he whispered. “You just want to know why.”

She was walking so stiffly, like her body was made of broken glass. She wasn’t looking at him, but the pale pinch of her lips, the stretched-thin look to her skin made him ache.

And then it registered, what she’d said. “The apartment. Your dad still lives there. Oh, shit. Kate, he just sits there in that chair and stairs down the hallway and drinks.”

“Yeah,” she rasped, shaking her head. “Can we not - I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Of course,” he said immediately. “No more. We won’t. We’ll get coffee and head home. Bath or shower, sweetheart?”

She shrugged, like she didn’t trust her voice.

“My choice?” he leered. “I like that. Hm, Beckett, you in the mood to have your sexual horizons expanded?”

She gave him such a look of intense relief that it actually hurt. She didn’t want to think about her mother murdered in their own apartment, her father sitting there in the dark probably imagining it. The rope, the struggle, the gunshots, the-

Four. Center of mass.

How... how exactly did she know that?

Oh, holy fuck. No.

“You didn’t,” he hoarsed, staring over at this tenacious, strong-willed, passionate woman who just didn’t quit. She just didn’t fucking quit. “Kate, oh, love. You didn’t.”

“What?” she rasped, her throat still thick with her cough. Emotion. Memory.

She’d looked up the detective’s report; she’d read her mother’s case file. Details burned into her brain.

Because she just needed to know why.

“What?” she said again. “Didn’t I what?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he murmured, drawing the back of her hand up to his lips. “Let’s get our coffee to go, okay? I wanna do things to you.”

She smiled, her head tilting into his shoulder, and he thought he might lose it. He might have already lost it. He just - he couldn’t fathom what it was to be Kate Beckett, to carry that all the time, to wonder why.

Why.

One day when she hadn’t just been ‘scratched’ by a bullet, when she wasn’t exhausted from a long day and a terrible cough, they were going to sit down and talk about this, go through it point by point.

He had resources, he had access to things she didn’t. They could work on this together. Find answers to why.

Of course he hadn’t exactly told her how he had those resources.

\-----

They had coffee while it rained, dreary and cold. Since he wanted to get her home as soon as he could, he’d bought them gooey chocolate with chocolate chip muffins - huge things that were bigger than his fist. She’d been eyeing them since they got in line and now that they were sitting close at a too-small cafe table, she kept making these noises as she ate.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said finally.

She shifted him a look and the smirk in it made him grunt and shake his head. He lifted his chocolate-smeared fingers and wriggled them in her face, like he might do something to get her back, but she leaned in, gripped his wrist, and sucked his thumb into her mouth.

Holy. Fuck.

Richard groaned and curled in around her, blocking her from view, shielding the whole thing because it felt too sensual, too intimate for anyone else to see. “Shit,” he gasped at her temple.

She licked around his thumb and scraped her teeth at the chocolate, popped off again. “Tastes good.”

“You did say you liked chocolate.”

“Oh, I really do.”

“You’re evil,” he grunted, cupping the back of her head and taking a soft kiss from her sweetened lips. She was smiling into his mouth, their teeth clashing, and she broke off with a breathless little laugh, parting from him to sip her coffee once more.

They decimated their chocolate muffins - he liked his, though he wasn’t sure if it was because of the way she ate hers and shared with him, or if it was actually the rich taste - and then they got to-go cups for their coffees, headed back out into the rain.

“You wanna take the bike?” he asked her, his fingers lacing through hers. He was doing it more and more now, pretending to be casual, but it pulsed a thrill through him every time she wriggled her hand to get it seated and comfortable in his.

“The motorcycle you’ve been following me around on?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. They were hesitating under the overhang outside the coffee place.

“Yeah, that one,” he grinned. “Might even let you drive.”

She glanced back down the way they’d come, the precinct still rather close. “Sure. But you drive. I wanna ride behind you, straddle your hips.”

He grunted and glanced down at the wicked smile on her face, had to lean in and capture it, kissing her roughly. She moaned - a tight, surprised sound in her throat - and he let her go to stroke the side of her face.

“Then let’s ride,” he murmured.

\-----

Her knees pressed in against his ribs, her feet up high, one arm around his waist. She laid her cheek to his back more than once, and she knew how to lean for the turns, how to balance it just right.

Obviously, she knew how to ride.

Her arm slung low around his waist and her knees pressed tight and the weight of her at his back made the drive excruciating - even as he was afraid it would be over all too soon.

At a stoplight, when he finally turned around to look at her, the mist had pearled on her cheeks and lashes. She was pale under the helmet, and he realized she had her other arm tucked in close to her chest, her palm spread over his back.

Her other hand caressed his inside thigh and he let out a fast breath, growled something that even he didn’t understand, and he turned back to face the traffic. She scratched her fingers against his thigh and roamed up to his crotch, cupping him.

He reached down and gripped her fingers too tightly, crushed her hand to his chest and away from the danger zone. She just - really - she just couldn’t do that and expect them to arrive home safely.

They couldn’t talk over the thrum of the engine and the noise of other cars, the wind rushing through his ears, but she stayed close like that, squeezing him with her knees and taking time to stroke his chest, burrowing her hand under his jacket, and then his shirt, for warmth.

Her fingers liked to scratch at his skin, sharp currents of arousal flaying him open, every point of contact like a roadmap to his cock. He had to throttle the handlebars to keep from doing something stupid - like grab for her or wreck the bike. Every time they had to stop at an intersection for the light to change, he reached back and curled his hand behind her knee, fingers clamped hard by her bent leg.

Reminded him of the bath last night.

It wasn’t a good bike for two, wasn’t built to have a long-legged rider on the back, and so she was hunched into him pretty tightly. He couldn’t have planned it better. And she enjoyed teasing him, enjoyed it too much, so that when her helmet bumped into the back of his, he only thought she was knocking into him out of love.

Well, not love, not love, just - a love tap. A - what would it be called? A tease. A knocking tease. Fuck, not love. Holy shit, he had to get himself together.

When he finally pulled up in front of her apartment building - or well, as close as he could get and still park - he realized Kate was... rather boneless against him.

He reached back, fingers gripping her coat, and she shivered.

“Kate?”

“I don’t feel right...”

Holy shit. He jerked her around to look at her, twisting them both in the narrow seat, and she was fumbling with her helmet - one-handed.

“What the hell?” he growled, knocking her hand away and doing it himself. Her hair spilled out of the helmet and made her face seem so shockingly white, and then a ripple of agony went through her body like she couldn’t hide it.

“Could you let... let go of my arm?” she rasped.

He cursed and hauled them both off the bike, dropping the center stand to keep it upright, and then locking it quickly. She was shivering hard now, and her eyes kept closing, and he didn’t think it was from being sick.

“Your arm,” he choked out. “Shit. Beckett.”

“It was fine. Until... now.”

Holy fuck, what was wrong with this woman? She could not, for the life of her, figure out where her damn limits were. He had to resist the urge to carry her up to bed immediately, but as it was, she leaned hard against him as he walked her into the building, his arm slung around her waist.

“You lose consciousness on the bike?” he asked.

“No. No,” she said, shivering again. “Promise.”

He wasn’t sure he could trust that promise.

As they stumbled through the front lobby, he began to hate her walk-up with a passion, wishing she wasn’t quite so stubborn that he couldn’t carry her. But he started them up the stairs, relieved when she seemed okay, had the strength to keep going.

“My fever is back,” she said quickly. “You can - let go. I’m not going to fall.”

“You had a moment on the bike,” he pointed out.

She growled something at him that he took to mean he was rude for bringing it up, and she struggled ahead of him on the stairs. He sighed and let her - at least this way he was behind to catch her if she fell.

At her apartment, she was tugging her keys out of her pocket in a manner that suggested they’d be standing here all night. When he gave up and grabbed his own, inserted it into the lock and opened her door, she gave him an incredulous look.

“What?” he muttered. “I had to be able to get in and out.”

“Did you make a copy of my key?”

“No, Beckett,” he said patiently, pushing her inside. “I stole the spare out of your kitchen drawer.”

“Holy shit,” she muttered. “I hate you.”

“I hate you too,” he grinned. “Now strip. Your arm - this is more than a scratch.”

“It’s fine,” she defended, but her hand moved to unzip her coat in a rather unpersuasive manner.

He dropped their stuff on the living room floor and came for her, tugging the zipper down and pushing off her coat.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

She gave her arm a faint look and then tried to smile at him. “I... didn’t know that.”

“Did you get EMTs on scene?” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.

“He didn’t mean to,” she said quickly.

“Kate Beckett.”

“If I got treated, he’d be charged for shooting an officer. He’s already in enough trouble for threatening the girl. But the woman - it’s just best to keep it between the two of them.”

“Did fucking Royce let you leave like this?” He was already peeling off her shirt, trying not to make it worse. The turtleneck had formed a kind of makeshift bandage when the blood had dried, but fresh blood had welled up below.

“Royce has no say in what I do,” she hissed. “Ow. Fuck. You’re hurting me.”

“I think you’ve already been hurt,” he said dryly. He wanted to break things, but instead he was having to go slowly, be gentle. He wanted to break things.

“You’re a bully,” she muttered.

“And you’re stubborn. Borderline stupid, Officer Beckett. Seriously, this isn’t okay. If you were one of my men, I’d have you cleaning out the latrine for a month to learn a damn lesson.”

“Good thing I’m not one of your men,” she growled.

“Too late for that,” he muttered, finally getting her shirt off. The wound was nasty - but it was just a graze. Probably dragging her around the city had reopened the damn thing. “Let’s get first aid. You have a kit or something?”

“I’m not one of your men,” she insisted. “Rick. I’m not one of your men to order around.”

“Thank goodness,” he said finally. “All my men were blown to pieces by an IED. I’d rather keep you around. Pieces aren’t hot.”

Her mouth opened, closed again, and she pushed away from him and headed down the hall towards the bathroom.

“First aid kit is in here under the sink,” she called back. “You fixing me or what?”

\-----

She sat on the lid of the toilet seat and bit her bottom lip in a most-seductive manner. He was pretty sure she didn’t mean to, but she was stripped down to only her bra and panties - and he knew she’d chosen those to tease him - and she was quiet and still and letting him dress her wound.

Apparently docile from Beckett did it for him.

She hissed when he poured hydrogen peroxide over the gash, but it wasn’t like it was alcohol - that had been a reflexive hiss only, he was pretty sure.

“I didn’t know,” she said again. “It didn’t feel like it was bleeding.”

“You got shot, Beckett.”

“It was a graze.”

“Your coat?” he said then, realizing he hadn’t seen it torn.

“I traded out. That’s my spare. The other one is in my locker. I’ll have to get it repaired.”

“If I’d seen a fucking hole in your coat, I’d never have dragged you out to dinner.”

She didn’t answer but he could feel her exactly in the air.

“Fine,” he said. “So we had fun and ate a good meal and I liked it, liked hearing your story - but weren’t you miserable the whole time?”

“No,” she said softly. Her toes curled on his thigh as he knelt before her. “I liked it. I barely noticed.”

“You’re a warrior,” he murmured, using a q-tip to pull threads out of the wound. Her shirt most likely.

“A warrior?” she laughed, a kind of breathless, scratchy thing.

“You just don’t stop. You have all this passion. And compassion for people - this guy doesn’t deserve to have you protect him, Beckett. But instead of getting treated, you just ride it out.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. I’m in situations like this - getting shot at - all the time, but you’re cool and composed and you kept your head and did the right thing. Shit, I’d give half my company to serve with you,” he kept going. “It’d be - you’d always have my back. I’d never have to wonder. I’d know you were right there.”

Her chest caught and her eyes lifted to his. She stared at him, her eyes so very dark against the pale frame of her face. “I - that’s - beautiful,” she croaked.

“Yeah, you are,” he said softly. “No one quite like you, Kate.”

She didn’t seem to know how to take that; she didn’t duck her head like a girl, but she didn’t offer that brusque thanks of let’s not talk about this. She just stared at him.

He let it go and threw away the bloodied q-tip, squirted neosporin into the wound and then bandaged it up. When he’d smoothed down the sticky ends of the big band-aid, she slid off the lid and straight into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.

“You’re just saying that to get laid,” she murmured, kissing his jaw.

He wasn’t. “Is it working?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “So well. The way you talk to me...”

And he thought maybe she didn’t mean dirty; he thought she was admitting it was everything else.

“You deserve it,” he murmured back, unable to help himself from the truth. He nipped her earlobe and stroked his hands up her bare back, popped open her bra. “Bed, Kate Beckett. We’re doing this in your bed, where I can get at you. Take my time.”

“You gonna talk to me?” she said, still going for his neck, sucking and licking, biting.

“Talk all you want.”

“Then bed it is.”

\-----

He stood beside her bed, watching the way her eyes took him in, hungry on his partially-aroused cock. He was trying to keep it tamed, but it was almost impossible to keep control of himself when she looked like that. She shifted her thighs wider and brushed her own hands up her torso to cup her breasts and squeeze.

“Beckett,” he growled.

“You can hurry up and join me,” she said, “or you can stand there and watch.”

“Watch?” he said, his cock stirring at the idea.

She grinned and shifted to lay back against the pillows propped up on the headboard, bit her bottom lip as she kneaded her breasts. “You like to watch?”

“I don’t know. I bet I’d like to watch you.” He sank down on his haunches so he could be eye level, and he laid his hand over her thigh to draw her knee up and expose her to him.

Her eyes turned dusky, a little stuttered breath. Her nipples were engorged just from her careless touching, the way she squeezed and twisted them, a rosy brown against the pale of her skin.

“Should I touch myself?” she murmured, her voice throaty, sexy with arousal.

Rick crawled in at the bottom of the bed, laid his head against her drawn up knee. “Now touch,” he said, kissing her bare skin.

She groaned and slid her hand down, scratched through her pubic hair before cupping her sex. She paused there, and his blood already pulsing at just the thought of it. He didn’t think he’d be able to just wait. Just look without touching. But damn if he wouldn’t try.

She kept her wounded arm drawn up so she could twist her nipples, pinching and violent. More violent than he might have expected. The fingers of her other hand worked at her folds first, skimming and pressing a little deeper, collecting her arousal and spreading it. He could smell her now, vodka and honey, the rich tang of her sex like a taste in his mouth.

She was breathing hard now, her thigh tensing under his cheek, and he reached out to press her other leg down, keep her open to him. She chuffed a breath and her hips popped up in a sudden burst of pleasure, her groan following after it, her fingers pressing harder.

The work of her hand through her sex, the way she used one finger to rub furiously against her clit while the others hovered and rubbed those outer lips, barely stroking her folds at all. She inserted one finger and rocked, her clit crushed into the heel of her hand, already ramping herself tighter.

He could see she was working herself too fast, too fast and dirty, and it wouldn’t be at all worthwhile. It’d be over before it started, a spasm of contractions and then nothing, nothing good or pleasing, just that faint sense of being done.

Even Rick knew that, after only a few days. And the look on her face showed she knew it too.

“Not like that,” he said, lifting from her thigh and settling his shoulders between her legs. She groaned and tried to finish herself off, intent on it, but he propped himself up on his elbows and grabbed her wrist, pressed her hand to the mattress. “Let me show you, love.”

“Fuck,” she panted, her hips seeking stimulation from the air. “Just - you weren’t doing anything so I-”

“I was watching you go about it all wrong,” he said softly, blowing a breath over her sex. She groaned and her hand twisted under his grip, but he kept her down and lowered his mouth to kiss her inside thigh.

If he made her come hard enough, she’d fall asleep and probably stay there long enough to do some good. He’d been remiss these past few days, going for it hard and taking what he wanted, fucking her and driving out his own rhythm because she was up for it. She was fucking sick and she’d been shot today, and he wasn’t going to keep fucking taking like that.

One good, vicious orgasm and she’d fall asleep. He’d take a shower and strangle his cock until he jizzed down the drain a few times, and then he’d crawl back into bed with her, watch her sleep without disturbing her this time. He could be good for her, he would.

“Fucking touch me,” she groaned, her hand twisting under his.

Rick skimmed his jaw against her inside thigh, let her feel the scrape of his stubble. She groaned like it hurt her, like she couldn’t take it, and he grinned and nipped at the swell of flesh at her stomach.

“Come on,” she moaned. “What are you waiting for?”

“Remember when you didn’t want me down here?” he grinned. He touched his tongue to her sex and licked softly at the arousal spilling out of her. “You didn’t think it could be any good, my tongue, my mouth, my teeth.”

“It’s fucking good when you stop talking so damn much.”

He laughed and he felt her shudder at the vibrations. Rick nosed in closer and sucked lightly at her folds, made her shudder again. He liked when her whole body rippled with it, like he was dragging it out of her. And she liked it better when he made her crazy with how slow he was. “It’s good when you let me have my way, let me do what I want to you.”

She grunted a curse and he lowered his mouth to her cunt and french-kissed her.

Kate gasped, her thighs crushing his shoulders and neck. He held her down, prying her open. She moaned, insistent and incessant, constant noise coming out of her mouth as he fucked her with his tongue. She was whimpering now, her hips grinding into his face, working too hard, and he curled his tongue and used his lips and teeth.

She whined his name and her injured arm came down, her fingers gripping his ear as if to hang on.

“Oh, please,” she gasped. “Oh, you have to, have to - please.”

So desperate, so gorgeously needy. He sucked on her clit and stabbed inside her with his tongue. No fingers, no loving strokes, just hard and shallow and pervasive. Like shock and awe. She was beginning to sound incoherent with it, he knew she was close. All he had to do was surprise her, give her something he’d never given her before.

He lightly touched her ass, stroking between her cheeks. She gasped, clutching at his ear, a violent sound in her throat. He found that tight pucker of muscle and nudged a finger into her ass, loosening, widening. She was shivering and shuddering, crying out, so tense that he had to work at it.

“Oh, God, oh God,” she moaned.

Rick pushed his thumb into her sex, rubbed that thin wall between his thumb and finger while he sucked on her clit.

Kate screamed into orgasm.

He found himself suffocated between her thighs, her whole body curled up around him, her arms at his head and her voice breaking on his name.

\-----

Rick untangled from her grip and lowered her back to the mattress. He laid beside her and caressed the angry mark on her breast where she’d twisted her nipple so roughly. He kissed her swollen flesh and laid his hand under her breast, cupping her a moment before drawing her in against him.

She curled to face him, her eyes closed, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “Shit,” she croaked.

“Give it a second,” he murmured, hoping she’d fall asleep. He would crawl out of bed and shower instead of taking so much all the time. Fuck, he really could not be shoving his greedy cock into her every chance he got.

Kate hummed and worked herself closer, cuddling with him, and his heart tripped at that closed-eyed happiness. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tighter, his mouth grazing her cheek. She wormed her knee between his, pressed a kiss to his collarbone on a sigh.

Rick stroked her hair away from her sweaty neck, another kiss at her temple, closing his eyes as she nested close to him. He loved being able to break through all the rules, the strictures, the roadblocks of their lives and just fucking give it to her. Something that didn’t require thinking or figuring out, something so good and intense that she could settle.

She’d sleep now and she’d get the rest she needed and he’d done that. He’d made it possible for her to stop caring about if it was fair or not, if the fucking had been reciprocal-

“Fuck,” he gasped. Her hand had squeezed around his cock and was pumping him. “Ka-ate.”

She hummed and her tongue touched his nipple, her teeth scraping.

He grunted and squeezed the back of her neck, tried to keep from wrapping his other arm too hard around her injured shoulder. “Kate, you gotta-”

“Hush,” she murmured. “I found something.”

He groaned with laughter. She kept - she just kept stroking her hand over him. Was that her - fuck - she was using her own arousal, her fingers sticky and warm and slick around his cock with his own arousal.

“Holy shit,” he whined. “Kate, just - you don’t have to-”

“But, baby, you’re so hard for me.”

“I’m fucking - shit - how could I not be?” He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from looking at her, keep the vision of the top of her head bowing over him completely out of his head.

Impossible.

“You’re so hard,” she murmured. “And so thick. So damn thick. When you push inside me it’s like being broken open.”

“Fuck,” he gasped. How good it felt inside her, her fist like her cunt, her cunt like a mouth, her mouth-

“Whoa, you just - I didn’t know you could get any harder,” she chuckled.

“Shit,” he groaned, burying his mouth into her neck, trying to find her hips to push her away, though he was pulling her closer instead. She was supposed to be resting, not making him insane. “You shouldn’t - you should sleep. Oh, fuck! fuck, Kate. Just - that was supposed to be for you.”

“This is for me? This-” She squeezed and he groaned. “-this feels so good inside me,” she whispered at his ear. “That moment, Rick, that push inside. That’s the best feeling in the world. Where your cock forces me to think of nothing else, and your hips are heavy, your legs pinning mine open, your body over me. I’ve never felt like that before, never liked having someone so - so everywhere.”

He moaned for her, desperate now for something he couldn’t even understand, desperate and aching and trembling with it. She wasn’t supposed to be doing this to him, affecting him so deeply.

“But I want to,” she said.

He must’ve - he couldn’t think. “But you were shot in the arm. You have to stop.”

Her hand released him, her body withdrew. He blinked in the sudden cold, stared at her.

He couldn’t breathe if she wasn’t helping him.

“Stop?” she said, her voice croaking. “I want you. Are you telling me no?” And then she reached out and grabbed his cock, hard, her other hand going for his balls in a vicious grip that made him whine.

“Kate,” he moaned.

“What are you saying, Rick? You don’t want this?”

“Not, no. No, I just-”

“Is that a no?”

“No,” he gasped. “It’s - shit - shouldn’t you sleep? You should be sleeping or - or something - something.”

“I’ll sleep later.”

“Fuck,” he moaned. “I’m trying to be fucking good for you. Can’t I just be good for you instead of always fucking-”

She growled and pushed him hard onto his back, lifting up over him and dragging her sex over his hip. He moaned and his eyes fixed on hers, the heat and need and demand there.

“You wanna be good for me?” she hissed. “Then don’t let me fucking oversleep in the morning. Help me get to my job on time - the most important thing in this world to me.”

“Job,” he gasped.

“That’s the deal. And if you’re good enough, Richard, you might get a wake-up call as well.”

She wrapped her hand around his cock and teased her sex along his shaft, up and down, grinding, sliding, making his teeth clench and his hips pump in vain.

“Please,” he gasped.

“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t deserve it. Trying to withhold yourself from me. Maybe I should tease you like you teased me, only pretend to fuck, finger you up a little until you’re buzzing and wretched with wanting me-”

“Kate.” He moaned, panicky at the thought of not having her, not having her; she had to let him inside her. “Please. Please, Kate. I won’t do it again.”

“That’s more like it,” she hummed.

And then Kate sank down over him and moved those hips in a wicked, ruthless rhythm that had him shooting off inside her in moments, shaking and undone with the clamp of her sex and the brush of her breasts and the heat of her open mouth against his.

“Please,” he whispered, emptying himself into her and dragging his arms around her to hold her down against him forever. She worked a climax of her own against his half-hard cock, moaning and whispering her praise at his neck, and he fumbled at her to help her out, barely able to function.

After it was done, she lay panting on top of him, shivering with the last of her orgasm, and he gripped the back of her neck and touched his tongue to hers, kissing her, tangling with her just to keep her there, keep her right here, never leave him.


	10. Chapter 10

On Thursday Richard was already awake, propped up against the headboard with Kate over him, reading that strange novel she'd had at her bedside, The Castle by Kafka, when the clock rolled over and the alarm blared. He turned it off before she could stir, putting the book down on the mattress. He laid his palm to her back - she was sleeping practically on top of him again, her skin hot to the touch, but not as bad as it had been.

"Kate, love, time to get up."

She didn't move, didn't react, but he knew she had awoken. He wasn't sure how - some minute vibration of alertness - but he rubbed her bare back and gave her the moment. She usually spent a few hours getting ready, gearing herself up for the day, drinking a couple cups of coffee. He bet she did some kind of workout - went for a long run or did some kind of yoga - when she wasn't sick like this.

She had time; they had time.

For some fun too, if she felt like it.

Rick combed his fingers through her hair and brushed it off of her back, causing goose bumps to scatter up her spine. He tugged the sheet up from where it had pooled at her waist, billowed it up and around her, felt her soft sigh into his chest.

So maybe she wasn't quite awake; she would never be this lethargic. She was the kind of woman to get right up and go, not let herself spend a second in bed for fear of never leaving it.

He'd like to make love to her this morning, slow and purposeful, give her something to smile about when she went through her neighborhoods and checked in at all their regular places. A secret smile that she could keep to herself and hide in her hand and tell people, oh, it's nothing, but know it was something alright.

Rick made a knot of her hair at her neck and leaned down awkwardly to kiss her shoulder, his thighs spread wide to cradle her lower body. She stirred then and her hand shifted to his hip, stroking his skin, her cheek nuzzling at his neck. Nuzzling, like a cat, like a woman ready for good morning, love.

He waited though, only skimmed his fingers up the knobs of her spine, traced a soft trail along the wing of one shoulder blade, moved down to circle the bandage on her shoulder. She was a warrior, he'd told her, and he meant it. Best kind of woman - unflinching and passionate, ready for anything. He loved what they had, loved finding out some new thing about her, loved hearing her stories and piecing together who she was from the scraps she gave out.

Like a puzzle, like a dossier he'd been given where most of it was redacted, most of blacked out and censored and he had to fit together what he sensed and observed until he had an understanding that went beyond the page, that went deeper, that was a knowing. Instinct and research dovetailing into rightness.

He would make love to her this morning - he saw it on their horizon - but first there was this, for as long as she'd lie here without demanding more, this touching and exploring, this teasing and feeling.

Her skin under his fingers was so soft, and warm; their bodies were damp where they were still pressed together, humid with sleep and last night's sex. She was sleepy like a cat and finding places to touch - her fingers fitting to the curve of his flank or dipping to the hollow places or tracing the line of his ribs, playing. It made his thighs shift, waking him a little more thoroughly, but still she didn't sit up and take him, she didn't tug him to roll over her, she just kept exploring.

Would she talk to him like this? Would she give out another piece of herself or would asking, would talking itself break her rules? Like this, maybe, it could still be about sex, not love; it could be foreplay rather than caressing.

He kept quiet, and he luxuriated in it, the feel of her body so at ease against him, humming very faintly as if she would purr at any moment.

Baby , and love, and sweetheart, and Kate - all of it wanted out of him. He did - he knew - he knew he did - lover her. He just didn't know how deep it went, how far it would stretch, how much he had in him to offer it - this love. It wasn't even his, he didn't think; it was just the natural accumulation of all their hours together - it was bound to happen, loving her.

How could he not?

Ireland was a year - six months if he was good, and he'd be good - and then he would be posted somewhere else that wasn't here. He loved her, loved what he'd discovered of her, but he'd never had anything last. He'd never been in love, let alone serious like, and at least he had the training to recognize what was going on in his head.

His psych panel would love this. He was forever breaking down his emotional responses into neat little packages for them and they'd have a field day here, mucking around in all this confusion.

Fuck, no. He couldn’t actually tell them about her.

Long-distance relationship echoed in his head but that wasn't actually relationship at all - not how he usually did it. Except he supposed they could have phone sex. But not actually touching her, not actually putting his mouth on her didn't seem to be much more than fantasy, even if it was her voice on the other end.

Didn't sound like love at all.

He was missing her already. How morose.

And she still hadn't made a move to start their good morning; she was only rubbing her fingers up and down his sides and her lashes were brushing his chest and her breath tickling him. He laid his palm over her ear and held her against him, closing his eyes to memorize it for Ireland, for later, forever, and then he realized she was falling back to sleep.

Oh, Kate.

"I'm sorry, love, but you made me promise not to let you sleep," he whispered.

She roused and her fingers splayed at his hip, her knee jerking as if she'd had a dream of falling.

Her head turned into him and she sighed against his chest. "You did good, Rick," she murmured.

It didn't feel good. She'd extracted her promise unfairly, holding his orgasm over his head like that last night.

He raised his knee and carefully rolled them over, pressing his erection into her belly to wake her up a little. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, her hands trailing up his back to frame his face. She kissed him, morning breath and all this time, and her tongue teased along his lips. He opened to her and rocked his hips down into her widening thighs.

"That's it," she whispered. "Making room for you, love."

His heart crushed every time she said it, love, every time it slipped out like an echo of his own fierce need, and he couldn't help gripping her inside thigh and pushing himself home.

She shivered and clutched him, and then she began to move.

\-----

He was lost in her.

She felt so damn good, hot and strong under him. She lifted her hips into his thrusts with these dark intense sounds from her throat. He wanted to hear her sounds forever.

But it made his him move a little harder, made him thrust a little deeper.

“That’s it,” she husked. “Right - oh - right there. God. Yes.”

He answered her call with a fiercer movement, staying all the way inside her for a longer pause just to feel her struggle under him. Struggle for more, shifting and moving her hips, writhing her body to rub herself against him.

It was so damn amazing.

She felt so good. He wanted to do this forever.

And yet he felt her quickening. Felt the way she tensed and began to flutter all around him. Her inner muscles clutched and released in a new way, rhythmless, as if she no longer had control over it.

He caught her hand in one of his, shifted just enough to pin her hand over her head. It shifted his angle, it exposed her more, and they both groaned as he slid deeper.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped.

He realized he was murmuring endearments into her sweat-damp temple, that his lips brushed her skin every time he husked I need you, need you love, I need you. She didn’t seem to care, or she took his words for seduction, or she didn’t hear him at all, because her hips didn’t stop moving, her body received his again and again, urging him on.

Her nails bit into his shoulders. It sent a dark lance of eroticism through him, a fallback on a lifetime of experience and training, and yet her soft mouth panting warmly against his cheek made it entirely different.

She was a new thing. This was a new.

Oh God, he might be entirely too late to stop this.

She cried out. Her body shook under him, contractions that caught and held him fast.

Her fingers laced through his over her head, her eyes flying open. Wide wide open.

He almost said it.

He stopped himself, just barely, held rigid above her.

“Come for me, come inside me, Rick.”

And then he did.

\-----

He sloppily kissed her, let his shoulder fall to the mattress and rolled off her. His body was hot and strong with the remnants of that round; he felt good lying next to her, listening to that hum of her contentment. He lifted his arm lazily and found her hand splayed over her belly, laced their fingers together at her stomach, left their clasp there, cradled.

She hummed and he could practically feel her eyes slipping shut. He wondered if he’d fulfilled his promise to wake her up, if he could fall back on the excuse that he’d fallen asleep too and oops, sorry, maybe you should call in sick.

Suddenly Kate shifted closer to him, her arm pressed against his, and he flexed his fingers around her hand, feathering at her belly button. She laughed, a surprised thing, and he felt her draw her knee up, and then she rolled into his side, her leg thrown over his thigh.

Cuddling. He could honestly say it was a first from her. His arm was trapped between them, his hand still tangled in hers, so that kept him from being able to cuddle back, but maybe that had been the reason she’d allowed it. Cuddling under her own strict rules.

Shit, he loved her.

Whoa.

It washed over him like dizziness and he sucked in a breath, blinking through the cascade of emotion. He just didn’t - he didn’t feel things - he just did his job and completed the mission and had these moments of grim satisfaction or the thrill of intense combat, but there was so much here.

He had thought it had more to do with how well they fucked, how they fit together, but he wasn’t fucking right now. They weren’t fucking. They were just lying here.

He couldn’t understand it. He was afraid and he was rejoicing; he was afraid and he wanted to cover her body with his and push into her again, desperate and deep and forever. He had this panicky urge to ask stupid, stupid questions like when can I see you again or can I keep your key, do you love me back, could you ever maybe just want to keep me ?

Shit. Shit, this was going to be humiliating, wasn’t it? Love. It was already humiliating, doing things just to try to keep her.

It was Thursday; he had Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning still to go but already it felt like being in a collapsing tunnel, running out of air.

Kate let out a long breath at his shoulder and nudged her nose down into his armpit, her knee drawing up a little higher, her body curling a little tighter. He could see the band-aid at her shoulder and the stain where it had evidently bled during the night, but she didn’t seem to notice it.

She was going to wreck him, wasn’t she? Before this was all said and done, Kate Beckett was going to wreck him.

He’d never been wrecked before. Colleen had been - probably - the closest he’d had to a break-up, but she’d tried to fucking slit his throat. He’d been upset not so much over her, but over his own poor judgment. That had shaken him - not knowing how he’d missed it so badly when he’d picked her. Faulty case work.

Beckett wasn’t a case; Beckett was...

Consuming him. He was eaten up with Beckett, wanting her and having her and being with her. No wonder she had all these rules in place, kept walls up; loving someone was fucking work.

But the sex was incredible like this. The sex was... love, and it was like her hot, strong hands had a hold of his balls even right now, half-asleep against his side, like her mouth was touching his soul when she was only just teasing him.

“I should get up,” she sighed.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even tighten his hold on her, and that was exactly the right thing. She burrowed a little closer, if she could even get closer, and her lashes brushed his skin.

“I did get shot,” she murmured.

He laughed and it made her chuckle too; her breath tickling him and her fingers tracing the contours of his ribs. She still wasn’t moving away from him, and he guessed technically she still had two hours before the need would be urgent enough to skip coffee and shower and newspaper and go straight to work.

But Beckett didn’t do that. So this was... different.

He was cautiously optimistic. He was pretty sure she’d still go to work, but maybe by Friday she’d stay?

Kate hummed again and still, still she stayed.

His heart was - his heart was trembling.

He couldn’t tell her; he couldn’t let her know. He had to be cool. He had to be good for her without her knowing he was; it was the ultimate covert mission.

Operation: Love Kate Beckett.

\-----

She was still drowsing when it occurred to him he could make one small step on his new mission, his first incursion.

He brushed the hair back from her cheek and cupped her neck, leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Be right back,” he murmured, sliding out of bed like it didn’t absolutely kill him to leave her.

She opened her eyes and watched him get dressed. He was tugging on those sweatpants she’d found for him and snagging his t-shirt. She smiled at him and he couldn’t resist putting a fist into the mattress at her shoulder and lowering his mouth to her cheek, smacking a kiss hard against her skin. She laughed and brushed him off and he left her there, falling back to sleep in bed.

It hit him, as he walked down the hall towards the bathroom, that she had decided to trust him. Completely. Not the sex - that was one thing. But her job. She had made him promise to wake her in the morning, not let her oversleep her alarm this week, not let her off on account of exhaustion or blood loss or being sick, and then she had trusted him to make good on his promise.

He was grinning as he went to the bathroom, grinning like a ridiculous fool as he washed his hands. He could see his own stupid face in the mirror, the beam of love, and he absolutely had to get a handle on that, tone it down before she saw it too.

Rick could smell the rich aroma of caffeine by the time he got to the kitchen. He poured her mug of coffee and made it up like she preferred it - a little cream, no sugar. He stirred it with a spoon and made up his own mug, and then he opened her cabinet drawers to look for a clean pan.

A tiny one in the back. That was all. Huh, he could - do dishes? He could do that while she was at work. Do the dishes since he’d made most of the mess here. And then maybe he could go grocery shopping and find actual food, like real stuff - vegetables and meat - and he could make them something this weekend.

Yeah. Better than scrambled eggs. But for now, he’d stick with old faithful.

Rick sipped his own coffee while he spread a little butter and milk into the bottom of the pan. Kate had mentioned that trick - and he had to admit, it tasted pretty great. He even put a little salt into it, like she had said, though his arteries cringed.

When the eggs were going, he pulled out the toaster and popped bread into the slots. He’d found the toaster yesterday - too late - and he was only now getting the hang of this.

He dished the scrambled eggs onto two plates, made another round of toast, and then buttered each slice. The butter was a new thing, but as he spread it against the warm toast and it melted down, he had a faint stirring of memory.

There was something else the toast should have on it. He could smell it, if he closed his eyes and concentrated.

Sugar and cinnamon. Who had given him toast with cinnamon and sugar?

Rick dutifully opened the spice cabinet, looked through her little bottles. Most were full, the rest horribly out of date, but the cinnamon was there.

He tapped a few sprinkles out onto only two slices, thinking it would be best not to ruin them all. He found her sugar bowl and went lightly, lightly, across the top, and already the heat of the toast was melting it down. It smelled like heaven.

Like home.

Eggs and toast and coffee. He glanced back into her spice cabinet and found nutmeg and just for the heck of it, he put a little nutmeg and cinnamon into his coffee.

Had his mother fed him coffee as a kid? He couldn’t fathom why he knew this, why it appealed to him. There’d been a Turkish coffee he’d had a few years ago that had been really good, so maybe the recipe was buried in his head somewhere. He sniffed it and tasted it, surprised at how good it was.

He hesitated, but he went ahead and doctored hers as well, adding a tiny bit of vanilla extract, his heart pounding as he cursed himself for a fool. She was going to hate it; she was so particular about her coffee.

And now he had two plates of breakfast and two mugs of coffee and no good way to bring them to her.

Huh.

Okay, think. He was a damn covert operative; he could get breakfast into the bedroom of the woman he loved.

Shit, holy shit.

Rick sank back against the cabinets and had to set the coffee mugs back on the counter, his heart pounding overtime.

Holy fucking shit.

He couldn’t love her; he really couldn’t do that to himself. To her. Kate Beckett was twenty-three years old. She had no idea - she had plans and he wasn’t - he had plans and this wasn’t in the plan. It wasn’t even a good idea.

Shit, but the thought of it not being a good idea for him made it stupidly appealing. At the same time, not being good for her had his stomach churning.

He was old enough that he ought to be the mature one in this relationship, but that definitely wasn’t how it would be. Beckett had an old soul; she was the wise one. Plus, on his assignments, he often found himself exceedingly cool towards them, knowing he was saying the exact wrong thing but doing it anyway, throwing up boundaries or playing the fool, whichever was easiest.

Fuck.

Of course, he’d never cared about the girl before. So that was in his favor, right? That would help, actually wanting to do right by her.

Okay, okay, shit, man up, Richard.

He stood up straighter and found a wooden cutting board in the cabinet, put the plates and coffee mugs on top of it, and then he carried that down the hall towards her bedroom.

She had curled up on his side of the bed - shit, he had a side, didn’t he? - and her hair was a halo on the pillow. She’d pulled the covers up under her chin, since his heat was missing, and his heart did a funny trip and fell at her feet.

“Kate, love, time to get up.”

She grumbled and her foot kicked out like she wanted to push him away, so he came around onto his side and sat down on the mattress close. Where she was forced to see him.

“Wake up, Beckett,” he chuckled. “Got something for us.”

She lifted her head to look, and suddenly her face blanked with something like shock (which he didn’t understand). She shifted in bed and let him in, lifting to lean against the headboard, staring at the wooden tray nee cutting board.

“You made breakfast in bed.”

“No, I made breakfast in your kitchen,” he said, frowning at her. “How could I have - anyway. I thought we could eat it in here, save us time.”

“You - no, that’s what it’s called, you big idiot.” She rolled her eyes at him and laughed, reaching for her mug of coffee. She knew which mug was his, didn’t she?, because he had a mug too. He had a side of the bed and he had a mug, and she respected those things.

He lowered the tray on top of the covers near her pulled up knees, but she was leaning in against his side, sipping her coffee.

“Whoa, what is this?”

He reached for her mug, wincing at the look on her face. “I’ll pour it out. I just - I had a thought - I don’t know. It was stupid. I’ll make you-”

She pulled it out of his reach, a hand at his chest to hold him off. “No, stop. I like it. It’s really good, Rick.”

She took another sip as if to convince him, but she didn’t look like it was awful. He grabbed his own coffee and took a swallow, surprised when it tasted pretty damn good.

“Oh,” he grinned. “It worked.”

“Yeah, it does work. Better than Starbucks, baby.”

He hid his stupid love-beam smile into his second swallow of coffee, tasted the burn of nutmeg and the exotic flavor. “I was going for Turkish coffee; this is pretty close.”

“Turkish?”

“Yeah, I was posted there for two years - this was before September 11th happened and I re-upped, of course,” he said easily. “This isn’t quite the same, but I like it better, I think.”

He grinned over at her and she had such a calculating, deliberative look on her face.

“Posted there,” she repeated slowly. But not in the military.

Uh-oh. It wasn’t said, but it was loud in the room between them.

“Hmm,” she said softly, her eyes sliding away from his. He held his breath, but she didn’t ask, she carefully wasn’t asking, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Breakfast,” he muttered finally, and reached down for their plates. He handed one to her and took the other, and she settled back to eat, her mug on the bedside table and her arm touching his as she leaned right against him.

She didn’t ask. And he had nothing to give her.

He should at least have a damn last name. So much he couldn’t say, so many things a mystery, and the least he could do was come up with a fucking last name.

She only knew him as Richard. She’d been the one to give him Rick.

But he had nothing for her in return.

\-----

It wasn't as hard as he'd expected to let her go. She winked at him and came back for another kiss, arms wrapped around his neck, bodies pressed tight, and then she hummed, smiling with her eyes closed, a breath of contentment before she put herself away and walked out her own front door.

Richard attacked his first phase of Operation: Beckett with ease, researching recipes online. He found a website that had rated the length of preparation, so he copied down the ones that he thought he could tackle without totally fucking up. Three and four steps. If he screwed up dinner after he'd managed to get her to come home with him rather than eat out... yeah, it wouldn't be pretty. Dinner out could still be construed as no strings attached, but dinner at home was intimate. Dinner at home was dinner at home.

When he had five or six things he could try, Richard then made a list of ingredients he'd need, checking them against what Beckett might already have. Which was nothing of course. She had a canister of flour that smelled funky and frozen veggies in a bag, but the website had been insistent that he buy fresh.

So Rick took a walk, found the grocery store after a few wrong turns, stocked up for their weekend. He stood indecisively in the refrigerated rows of cut flowers, really wanting to buy her roses, but he had to stop himself from pushing it too far. He filled up his shopping cart and when he'd found the french bread, he also realized he was back by the flowers again.

Okay, flowers were fine, just not roses. Right? Roses meant love. But one of these others could just mean trying to make the place cheerful. And no candles, no putting the flowers on the table with them - that was romantic. He was going to have to steer away from romantic and land clearly on the side of practical. Eating at home gave them more time for fun, less time wandering around the city walking through thunderstorms.

Of course, it was an agony to decide on flowers. No roses, but the orchids were so luxuriant - she'd think he was trying to say something. The carnations looked ridiculous, like something he'd buy for her if she was in the hospital, the lilies reminded him of European church services, and half the bouquets said congratulations in blue or pink. He finally went with purple tulips, his hands getting clammy even as he paid for everything.

He unloaded it all at her apartment and put the food away, placed the flowers in a clear glass vase he found in her cabinet. It looked stupid, but they were here now and he didn't know what else to do. Throwing them away seemed ridiculous, and maybe she would barely even look at them.

Richard went back to the CIA crash pad and gathered more money, checked his service pistol and cleaned it, reloaded it. She'd seen the gun, of course she had, but she hadn't commented. From the closet he pulled his travel suit and the go-bag, knowing he wouldn't want to waste time coming back here on Sunday when he could have all day with her.

The go-bag held his Michael Leary passport and papers, everything he would need for his cover ID, but he wasn't worried. She never asked; she obviously had thoughts, but she wasn't interested in the answers.

It was only when he was hiking through the abutting park that Richard realized he'd been followed.

Panic curled hot in his chest and seared his lungs; he did a careful sweep of the trees on either side of him and noticed the man in a tweed jacket about a hundred yards back. Camera like a tourist, eyes on the trees like a bird-watcher, pulling off neither.

Rick kept walking, slung the bag higher over his shoulder and made sure he could access his gun in its holster under his coat.

He did the usual backtracking, covering blocks and blocks of the city, riding subway lines back and forth as he made a concerted effort to shake his tail, and it took three hours before the man was finally ditched.

Shit. Shit, where had Rick picked up the tail? Outside Beckett's? Or just at the CIA place?

He bought a new burner phone in Radio Shack and immediately turned on his old one, sent a text telling his father he'd be out of touch and that he'd had a shadow for part of the day, and then he ditched the old phone. He didn't text his father the new number and he wasn't sure why.

In Radio Shack he bought a few surveillance cameras, motion-activated with night lens - expensive shit that he had to spend from his savings, an account he'd opened a year ago without his father's knowledge. (Why? Why had he done that? Had he known that soon he would want a life of his own, a small corner of himself where his father couldn’t come?) He brought everything back to Beckett's place, keeping an eye out as he walked, and when he got to her building, he made a slow and thorough inspection before allowing himself to go inside.

He didn't think he'd picked up his shadow here, but he couldn't be sure. Not when it came to Kate, her safety while he was gone. She wouldn't even know it was coming. She was tough and she had skills, but how in the world could she defend herself against enemy operatives if she didn't even know to be wary of them?

Richard installed the fish-eye lens camera at her door, right above the frame, activating the wireless receiver and piggy-backing it on her neighbor's signal. Before he left, he would set up wireless for her home computer, password protected unlike the neighbor’s, and then he'd put the cameras on her own network. For now, this would do.

He installed the second camera at her fire escape, embedded it just at the frame of the window; it was visible but that couldn't be helped. The third he left on the kitchen table to ask her where she'd want it. Maybe the bedroom windows, even though she was up a few stories.

When he was finished, he realized how very late it had gotten and he cursed himself, hurried out the door to go meet her. He needed a few hours to be absolutely certain he wasn't being followed; he was cutting it close.

The day had flown by.

\-----

"What's wrong?" she asked. Her hand came out and clutched his jacket, her head tilted back to look at him. "Rick, what's going on?"

"I think - I'm not sure," he admitted. "Could be nothing."

She glanced around, up and down the sidewalk, and then her eyes came back to him. "You meet me here - just past the precinct - every day. Just past the cameras."

"Yeah."

"All right," she said slowly. "Is it bad?"

"I don't... I think I fixed it," he said finally. "I was out and I - maybe I'm paranoid."

"Military intelligence," she said quietly. He opened his mouth to explain - something, anything, he didn't know what - but she shook her head firmly. "No. Never mind. You don't have to say. Are we okay to head to dinner?"

God, he loved her. His chest hurt he loved her so much. Was this what being in love was? Or was it just finding sympatico, discovering someone who got you? Were they the same things? "Yeah, I think so. I'm keeping an eye out. You have a good sense of things; you’d probably know as soon as I did - you spotted me, right?"

She nodded and her fingers loosened on his jacket, came down to take his hand. "I did. Is that - a feat?"

He felt his breath release in a laugh. "Yeah, love, it is."

She grinned and squeezed his hand, nudging him down the sidewalk towards Remy's. "Well, good for me."

"Guess so," he gave. "But let's not worry about it. We'll eat dinner and - oh, hey. I bought some groceries. I thought this weekend, if you - I mean - we could stay in bed all weekend. Before I leave. We won't have to waste time foraging, you know?"

She bit her bottom lip and gave him a level look. "Oh, really?"

"I just - I was thinking, you know, it would be... nice," he finished lamely.

She smiled that reserved Mona Lisa smile and knocked her shoulder into his. "More than nice. You perform some feats of your own in bed."

"Yeah?" he said, grinning at her now. "Well, then."

"Well, then," she echoed, smirking.

"So, here's my official invite: would you do me the pleasure of staying in bed with me all weekend and fucking like rabbits?"

She laughed then, bright and happy, and her hand around his squeezed. "So long as you do me the pleasure as well," she said.

He huffed. "I should think that goes without saying. I am extremely good at getting you off."

"You are rather expert at it. Must have lots of practice."

He chuckled. "Only what you've allowed. I'm just a fast learner, love."

"Oh?" She had a strange look at her face, a kind of breathlessness to her voice. "So Saturday and Sunday - both days?"

"Yeah. Unless - oh, are you, do you have to ride out? I should've asked. I didn't think."

"No, I'm not on call this weekend. Aren't you lucky?"

"I'm thinking I'm the luckiest man to walk the planet," he husked, unable to help how it struck him. Like the Universe really had conspired to give him this chance with her, like it was all falling into place for them. He leaned in and kissed her temple, skirted down her cheek to touch the corner of her mouth with his lips. "Thank you, Kate. I have - there are so many things I want to do with you. To you."

She shivered and he came in close, too close, and he pressed her hand to his chest and kissed her knuckles, grateful - so grateful - to have this.

\-----

They had just come up out of the subway station when the wind picked up, chilly and biting.

“It’s no cinnamon toast,” she laughed, “but it’s good. You’ll like it. Sure you don’t mind a little change?”

“I’m up for it,” he grinned back. “I’ve learned to trust you when it comes to food.”

“Because you are - after all - a smart man,” she smirked. Her hand was still caught in his, had been all subway ride, and she was leading him towards a new section of town, a new culinary adventure.

“I didn’t realize you liked my cinnamon toast quite so much,” he added.

“My mom always made me cinnamon toast when I was sick. Sprite and cinnamon toast. So when you showed up with it - I don’t know - it was-” She cut off, didn’t finish, but the shrug of her shoulders and the fall of her lips let him know. It was too much - it was too close to home.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “I didn’t realize that was a comfort food. I’d never had it before.”

“What? Then why did you make it?”

“Oh, I guess I must’ve had it before, I just don’t remember. I guess my mother made it for me?”

“Why is that a question?” she said. Her body nudged into his as the wind kicked up; it looked like rain tonight again. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” he said. They were headed south towards Little Italy and what she promised was the best restaurant for tiramisu cheesecake. “I don’t remember anything about her.”

Kate sighed, empathy in the sad little sound. “When did she die?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She might be alive,” he answered, surprised to realize he’d never thought to ask. Who would he ask? “I haven’t seen her since I was four or five. She dropped me off at boarding school and never came back for me.”

“Oh my God.”

He glanced quickly to her; Kate was horrified. She’d practically stopped on the sidewalk.

“What?”

“She left you?”

“I - yes. I was a handful. A really wild kid - always in trouble. Boarding school was supposed to tame me, I guess, but I was getting kicked out that semester break. I guess I was five by then.”

“You were a little boy,” she insisted. “Boys are - she never came back?”

“No,” he said, shrugging it off. “That’s when my father picked me up, about a week before Christmas when it was time to go home.”

“Just - he just picked you up at semester break and said you were coming home with him? Had you ever met him before?”

“I’d never known he existed. And well, he didn’t actually physically pick me up,” Rick revised. “He sent a car.”

“You are kidding me.”

“No, not kidding. Hey, where to now, Beckett? Left or right?”

She stopped staring at him long enough to glance around, get their bearings. “Left. This way. You see the green and white striped awning? That’s Lorenzo’s.”

He nodded and they threaded their way through a pretty brisk tourist crowd, despite the chill in the air, making their way to the restaurant. He was excited about Italian with Beckett because he thought that was maybe more romantic than Remy’s - a cop diner - even if she wouldn’t call it romantic. Italian places had candles and mood lighting and wine.

He was looking forward to this.

Kate’s cheek came against his shoulder for a moment and he turned a surprised face to her.

“Your father sent a car to pick you up for Christmas, Rick. I just - you went home with a complete stranger. And your mom... left.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly home,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I thought it was his place; I didn’t know any better, but it was a training facility. My room was an empty barracks. But he started teaching me himself.”

“You were homeschooled?”

“What is that?”

“He - you said he taught you himself.”

“No, I went to school. Military boarding schools, a new one every year. I wasn’t a good kid, Beckett. I told you. No one could handle me but him.”

She was studying him from the corner of her eye. “You weren’t a good kid or your father wasn’t a very nice man?”

He stared straight ahead, his mouth opening but no words coming out.

“I suppose that’s not fair,” she said softly. “I’ve never met him. I’m sure he’s a good enough man, since he took you in when your mother... did you ever get a chance to talk to her? Ask her why? Or your father? Maybe he asked to have custody and she-”

“She left,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s all. She left me there. He came.”

Her fingers squeezed around his and suddenly she was dragging his hand to her lips, her kiss soft and apologetic. “You’re right. I’m sorry. He came.”

Rick nodded, but a thread of unease had wormed its way through his guts. “I - I was an unruly troublemaker. He took the time to discipline me, to give me rules and boundaries and a program to follow to be successful. To learn how to - how to control myself. My mother only... left. She didn’t try to get through to me. So. Better off without her.”

Kate didn’t say anything, but it was such a loud, sad silence. He didn’t understand; his father had come for him, like the heroes in the stories. His father had saved him.

“What did you have for Christmas?” she asked then. “That first one with him. I bet that stands out in your mind, first Christmas with your father.”

Rick reached out and grabbed the door to Lorenzo’s, opening it for her as he scrambled to remember. Nothing stood out and he tried in vain to recollect his five year old self.

He’d been cold for some reason; that was clear. He’d just felt so cold. Why was that? Had the training facility been without power for a while? It took a lot to make him cold; he couldn’t understand why that memory had suddenly come to him. It couldn’t be right.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “My father doesn’t do holidays. They’re a waste of resources. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have a Christmas.”

They were just in the dark foyer of the restaurant, not yet to the hostess’s podium, when she turned suddenly into him and wrapped her arm around his neck, cupped the side of his face with her other hand. Her nose nuzzled his and out of reflex he held her tightly.

“Rick, love, you’re breaking my heart,” she whispered. Her kiss was a soft press of her lips, a sigh that pierced him.

“I don’t want to do that,” he said quietly. “I’ll never do that to you, Kate.”

She gave a strange little noise in her throat and came back down on her feet, her body dragging along his. “You have no idea, do you?”

He could only stare after her as she turned and headed for the hostess; he was completely confused.

She was right; he had no idea.

\-----

She’d asked for a booth, which surprised him, and even more so when he realized the hostess was taking them to a rounded booth which usually seated about five or six. He didn’t like these booths; they hampered movement and were impossible to get out of quickly if he needed to make an escape. So he sat down at one end and waited for Kate to join him.

She took her coat off first, dropping it on the other end of the half-circle, and then she curled her finger at him. “Up.”

“Up?” he said, eyebrows raising.

“Right now.”

He stood without thinking and she slid past him, patted his seat. He reclaimed his place and she was nestled right beside him, her elbow bumping his, surprisingly close.

“Are you messing with me?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Messing with you?” she said, drawing back a little. Her eyebrows furrowed, her hands suddenly very still, gripping the menu.

“Is this because I wouldn’t sit on my own side in Remy’s?”

She shifted away, sliding towards the middle. “I was - you seemed to want to before and Italian was my choice, and I didn’t want to throw off your game.”

“Oh.” And then it hit him she had sat so close for him, to give him that, and he sucked in a surprise breath. “Oh, hey, wait. Get back here.” He wrapped one hand around her knee and the other he hooked in her waistband and then he dragged her back against him with a grin.

She huffed and narrowed her eyes at him.

“I thought you were teasing me, Beckett, giving me a dose of my own medicine. But you were just being nice.”

She rolled her eyes, a weak laugh tremoring in her throat.

He’d hurt her feelings; he hadn’t meant to but he had. He could see it in her eyes, but he was going to make it up to her.

Rick leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You just made me happy,” he told her quickly, trying to bring it back. “Thank you. So tell me what you think I should order here.”

She seemed grateful to divert their attention towards the menu, and as she listed a few of her favorites here, Rick tried to think of a way to get their easy mood back. Maybe he could tell her about growing up with his father, since his mother’s disappearance from his life seemed to make her sad.

Well, she’d lost her mom too, in a much more gruesome and terrible way, so of course she was going to carry her own bias into it. Yeah, from now on, he’d avoid the mother issue.

“I think I’m going to have this fish thing,” he said, tapping the menu when she was done. “Siciliana Swordfish. Wow. I had that once in Rome, but it was dry. And the raisins were tough.”

“It comes with calamari,” she said, a little groan in her voice. “Can we share?”

“You like calamari?”

“Just discovered it. I love - love - calamari. You don’t mind? What else are you thinking, because I could get something you liked and we can just buffet it.”

“Oh, nice, I like that idea,” he grinned. Mostly because Beckett didn’t seem to mind sharing her food with him despite the predatory way she’d protected her french fries at Remy’s that first night.

“No fish,” she warned. “Get something good - buttery, rich sauce, Richard. Live a little.”

“Ah, I see. There are conditions.”

“You bet. I mean, you’re getting the healthiest thing on the menu. Means we gotta balance it out with some alfredo sauce.”

“Alfredo, okay. I can do that. Let me see.” He scanned the menu, but it honestly - the idea of buttery sauce made his stomach feel like lead. Thing was, he’d learned this past week that this stuff was good, that when Beckett said trust me, she really could be trusted. So even though he hesitated, he knew he had no reason to doubt her. “I don’t know. You pick, Beckett. It’s a blur.”

She laughed and leaned in against his shoulder; she had this thing where she liked to knock into him when she found him amusing. He liked it.

“The pesto is good,” she said neutrally. “And the shrimp pasta. Oh, but that’s more seafood. Okay, come on, alfredo. You know you want some. Rich, buttery sauce. Mmm.”

He laughed back at her. “If you say so.”

“We can even order the veal alfredo - it’s their speciality. I don’t think I’ve had it anywhere else.”

Veal alfredo? Really. “Okay,” he said hesitantly.

“Oh, don’t look like that. You’re going to love it. You’re going to beg me to take you back here.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he was giddy inside. Beg me to take you back here. Oh yes, yes, she was thinking of them in terms of later as well. “Alright, the veal - veal? - alfredo.”

She grinned and leaned back against the booth like she was the queen of her realm.

Yeah, she was. Queen of him, that was for sure.

\-----

“Beckett, this is so good,” he moaned, sucking down another buttery noodle drenched in alfredo sauce.

Kate lifted an eyebrow and daintily placed another bite of calamari onto her tongue, in clear and flagrant seduction. He loved it when she did that, went after him in that aggressive, let’s fuck way.

She clearly felt better than she had the last few days, though she was still flushed from time to time, like she hadn’t quite broken through her fever. And he knew she’d still cough all night if he didn’t insist on her using those throat perles.

Well, he’d distracted her earlier, kept her from insisting on going down on him. But tonight, shit, the way she was going after it, teasing him, her fingers trailing along his inside thigh with every movement, yeah. Fuck, he was gonna have to ask if she didn’t mind maybe just this once more...

“Told you so,” she murmured. “You’ve eaten my whole plate.”

He glanced down at her own dish - it wasn’t even in front of her any longer; square in his place. “Oops. We’ll order another-”

“No, no,” she laughed. “Look, I’ve got all of your calamari. And I even ate some of your fish. I’m good. Don’t want to be too full.”

“Why not?”

She pressed her lips together, eyes bright, tilting her head at him. “Well,” she said slowly, “I’m gonna get fucked later, and eating too much isn’t sexy.”

“Eat all you want, Beckett. I’ll still fuck you. Pretty sure the food belly won’t put me off.”

She laughed, a startled and sharp thing that cascaded out into an actual giggle. She had giggled. Oh, she’d never admit it, but that was giggly.

“What?” he defended. “I’m a guy. And you’re fucking hot. Like, fucking hot apart from your body, which is amazing in and of itself.”

“What does that mean? How can you be hot apart from your body?”

“You manage it so easily,” he said. “You’d think you’d already know this.”

“Stop being an ass,” she laughed, elbowing him.

“I’m serious. That little move you do when I sink inside you, that twist of your hips? That’s fucking hot. I could close my eyes - shit, it does make me close my eyes, every time - and I’d never have to even look at you, just that twist-”

“Shit,” she breathed out, burying her face suddenly against his shoulder. He reached over and cupped the back of her head but she was groaning a little. “You’re like a phone sex operator. Every time you open your mouth, Rick, it’s more pornographic than the last.”

He grinned and stroked behind her ear with his thumb, that hard ridge of bone where her hair was pulled back. “Is that a good thing?”

“In the middle of a restaurant, I don’t know about good. It’s making me wet.”

He hummed at that, wished he had the right to reach down between her legs and pop open a button, unzip her pants and see for himself. “Who’s pornographic?”

“I figured if I’m ruining my underwear because of you, you might as well be hard because of me,” she said, lifting her head to give him a sweet smile.

He cupped her cheek and tilted down to kiss her softly, meeting sweetness for sweetness, a trace of let’s fuck behind it. “I think you’re about the most erotic, fascinating, frustrating, intelligent woman I’ve ever met, Kate Beckett. And it’s an honor to be going home with you.”

Her breath faltered but she pressed another kiss to his mouth, giving it back without words. “Speaking of going home with me,” she murmured. “Time to go. As it is, I’m not sure I’m going to make it through the subway ride home.”

“What about our dessert?”

“We’ll take it to go,” she said. Her eyes were dark when she pulled back from him. “You can eat it off me when we get home.”

“Check please.”

\-----

He had managed to get the tiramisu in the fridge before she started stripping off her clothes, but only barely. And once the clothes came off, he lost all attention for anything else. She had this erotic strip-tease thing going on and he realized she really had been feeling pretty bad these last few days.

Because this Kate was intriguing, incredible, and twisting his guts with how good it was.

And she hadn’t even started touching him yet.

“You gonna just stand there, Richard, or you gonna join me?”

“You do it,” he rasped.

She arched an eyebrow and came to him in the middle of the kitchen, pressed her thumb to the button at his pants. “You want me to take this off?”

“Yeah,” he said heavily, feeling his cock shift and come to life.

“Are you getting hard for me?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “You wanna see?”

“Mm, I do. You have a beautiful cock.” Her cheeks flushed as the words came out of her mouth, but she didn’t take it back. His hands were dumb at his sides; he could only stare down at her. She avoided his eyes and opened his pants, unzipped to caress his hips with her hands.

His own breath was harsh in his ears, but he couldn’t find the words to say what it meant, being loved by her. He might not know love, he might never have had it before, but it looked like this - this woman caressing his thighs and drawing her hands in to cup his erection through his boxers, praising his cock when it pulsed for her.

“Feel how it wants you?” he rumbled, finally finding words again. He drew his hands up to dance along the bare skin of her ribs, brushing under her breasts. “How I want you.”

She bit her lip and he saw he’d said too much, that the honesty was pushing her back, and so he leaned in and gripped her by her hips, hefted her up onto the kitchen counter.

She startled, not expecting the move, and he stepped between her knees, opening her wider to him.

“Hey there, baby,” he murmured, giving her a wolfish look. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“I’d really like to fuck you right here, but I’m indecisive.”

“Let me decide for you - yes.”

He chuckled. “You didn’t let me finish. I’m indecisive about what comes first-”

“Oh, I come first.”

Castle laughed then, so turned on by her, by how sharp her tongue was, how sincere at the same time. “Oh, yes, that’s my plan for sure. But. I mean, do I suck on your breasts and make you crazy with it? Or do I eat you out first, your legs over my shoulders?”

“O-oh,” she stuttered. “All - all good choices.”

“Then there was the other idea. We could do a little role playing. You could stand right here, cop just home from work, the uniform stripped to get rid of the day, and reach inside the fridge for a bottle of water-”

“How is this role play? This is just my life.”

“And then - don’t interrupt - and then I come up behind you, wrap my arms around you, and oh, look, that hot, wet place between your legs is the perfect place to keep my fingers warm.”

Her lashes fluttered. Rick stroked his hands up and down her bare thighs, feathering his fingers at the crease of her hip. She was swaying on the counter, these barely seen waves as her blood pulsed in her body.

“I could hold you up while I cupped you in my hand. My arm so tight around your ribs to keep you from falling, my hand kneading your breast, my mouth sucking on your neck.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him.

He had her entranced with only his words. “My fingers are bigger than yours, so it feels different, doesn’t it? Feels intrusive, like I won’t leave you alone, like I’m going to make you come for me.”

She groaned and closed her eyes, leaning forward as if she couldn’t stop herself. Rick stepped close, his cock brushing the counter, sliding his arms around her waist to pull her groin to his. She moaned and wrapped her arm around his neck, her other hand finding his erection and stroking.

“I’d be all over you, Kate, around you, holding you up, hard at your back, my hand between your legs and forcing out every dirty rock of your hips.”

Kate cried out and her hips jerked against him, humping erratically, her teeth against his neck to strangle her noises.

He had just made her come.

\-----

She was heartbreakingly flustered, her face turned away from him as she tried to recover. He stroked lightly at her spine, up and down, kissing softly at the top of her shoulder, the side of her neck, pretending she hadn’t just come sitting on her counter without him even touching her.

Fuck, he was so turned on it was killing him. He’d made her come just talking to her.

And then her hands were aggressive on his hips, shoving his pants down and dragging his boxer briefs away with her toes. Her knees came up at his waist and her heels dug into his ass and she gripped his cock, made a desperate little noise as she tugged him towards her sex.

He didn’t comment, didn’t try to make her wait or ask her about it; he just reached between them and guided himself to her entrance, put himself right there, right where it was perfect, and he knocked her hands away.

“My turn,” he growled, knowing she needed him to demand it, to fucking take it from her.

She moaned at the breach of his cock; he nudged the head of his erection against her resistance, relishing it.

And then he rammed himself inside her.

She cried out, arching, and he managed to catch her by the back of the neck before she could smash her head against the cabinets. She was writhing, begging him for movement, his name a cry when he started to thrust. He went hard and deep, taking his time with it, nailing her with every jolt of his hips.

She was a live wire in his arms.

“You’re so hot,” he snapped at her ear. “You’re so hot, and I don’t even - I can’t even believe how good this is, Kate. How good you feel around me, burying myself inside you.”

She bowed forward, pressing herself to him. She was panting at his neck, her forehead to his skin, her body curling and meeting his thrusts, her sex so slick and wet and hungry for him. He pumped into her, gripping her neck and her hip, and she started making these noises every time he bottomed out against her, these whining, pleading noises that made his cock even harder.

He’d made her come with words.

He climaxed at just the thought of it. He shouted and fucked her hard through his orgasm, surprised by how it had suddenly sneaked up on him, grabbed him around the balls.

Oh fuck, that was her hand.

“Come on, come on,” she gasped. “More.”

Richard growled and rooted harder, willing his cock to stay up for her, just long enough, just a few more strokes, and then she stiffened and shattered, crushing his body to hers with the force of it.

He pulsed a few more times inside her and then was done, realized his forehead was sticky with sweat against her breast, his arms gripping her hard around the waist like he was afraid she’d float away.

But she slowly wrapped herself around him, laying her cheek to the top of his head, and breathing out into the softness of their release.

He almost said it. It was right there on his tongue to murmur I love you.

But he caught it, held it, closed his eyes and pressed his kiss to the slope of her breast and breathed his love out across her skin instead.

She had bitten his shoulder and it pulsed.

\-----

He was carrying her back to the bedroom, kissing her breasts as she moaned, head thrown back, when she suddenly jerked inward and started coughing. Endless coughing.

It was an aching sound.

She stuttered and dropped her legs, wriggling down, and he let her go, not wanting to cause her any more embarrassment. She darted for the bathroom and leaned over the sink, bracing her hands on the porcelain, still coughing and coughing like she might never stop.

Rick moved past her to the medicine cabinet and opened it up, found the throat perles. She grabbed the box from his fingers but had to bow over the sink, practically wilting from the stress of coughing; he slid his arm around her waist and held her up, her back to his chest.

They were both still naked.

“You want me to get you some water for those?” he said, stroking his free hand along her spine, twisting her hair around his hand. “Huh, love? I’ll get you the glass from the side of the bed.”

She nodded, still coughing, gasping huge lungfuls of air when she could so that she was practically choking.

He left her in the bathroom, found the half-full glass of water beside her bed, brought it back quickly. He had to take her hand and wrap her fingers around it, hold it for her because she was shaking so badly.

Her other hand came up, trembling, the box in her fingers, and he took it from her, let her cradle the glass even as she coughed. Her face was bright red, her eyes had tears in them, slipping free to burn tracks down her cheeks. He pulled out the package, popped open a perle and handed it back to her.

She opened her mouth and put it on her tongue, swallowed it down with a choking gulp of water.

She forced it down, still dredging up thickness in her lungs, and the water glass slipped through her fingers. He caught it, rescued it before it could even spill, and she had her head tilted back, eyes closed, throat working slowly. Tears drenched her cheeks, in the creases of her neck, from the effort of coughing. He put the glass away and wrapped his arms around her.

They were both still naked, still sticky with making love, bodies sweaty, but she was burning up. On fire with it - the sex or the fever, he couldn’t tell.

“Starting to work?” he murmured, reaching up to stroke his fingers over her throat.

She dropped her head and nodded, croaked something unintelligible. They both laughed, though hers was broken.

“Come on, in bed, Beckett. I’ll give you a chance to recover, but after that - we’re not wasting any more time.”

She smiled at him, and he knew he’d said the right thing. There was only so much taking care of that Kate could handle and she’d definitely hit her limit.

“Your concern is touching,” she croaked out.

He laughed - oh, if she had any idea - and he hustled her down the hallway, pushing her back towards her bedroom. “Come on, Beckett. You know, when I said I liked how hot you were, I didn’t really mean literally.”

She groaned and he could practically see her rolling her eyes. Her hand came back and tangled with his, dragging him towards her bed and pulling him down with her. She laid on her back and he saw the rumble in her chest, the cough threatening, but it smoothed out before it could start.

She smiled. “You know what I want to do, right?”

He settled over her, smoothing his fingertips along her collarbones, dipping his mouth to suck lightly at her skin. He was ignoring the coughing, ignoring how feverish she was right now, and he was going to do it her way.

Because it was her way or no way, and he’d much rather be in her bed than wishing he was.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to deep throat you.”

He grunted and dropped his head against her chest, breath coming hard against her breasts. She stroked her hands down his shoulders and hummed.

“On your back, baby,” she murmured, clearing her throat. “I wanna get on my hands and knees over you.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He was going to die.

\-----

Her hair trailed along his abs and her hands coasted down his thighs, drawing his legs flat to the mattress. She straddled his knees and her fists came to either side of his hips, and she lifted her eyes to his, watching him.

He swallowed hard and had the fleeting thought that he actually might not survive this.

“You ready?” she said.

“No,” he croaked.

She grinned and sank back on her haunches, her ass settling on his knees, then she caressed his cock with her hands, over and over, like she was playing with a new toy. With her sitting on his legs, it pinned him down, kept his thrusts awkward and short, made him strain for it.

“Kate,” he groaned.

“My throat is - such a strange feeling, these perles. When I go down on you, I can feel your cock widening me up, but it’s not even a problem.”

“Fuck.” He threw his arm over his eyes and gulped in air, trying to last long enough so that she could actually get there.

“You better not lose it,” she warned, but she sounded fucking delighted.

“If you don’t hurry up,” he growled.

“You’ve got ten years on me, Richard; you should be better controlled than this.”

“I feel about sixteen right now, Beckett. Fucking hell, just do it.”

“Oh, but I so love to tease you.”

“Cock tease. That is exactly what you are.”

She laughed and he dropped his arm to look at her; she was so beautiful. She was so beautiful he could cry.

She caressed his balls and skimmed a finger at the skin around his sac, and then she lowered her mouth to him.

It shouldn’t be possible, but his cock leaped to meet her, brushing her lips with an erotic kiss. She moaned a little, probably just to make him suffer, and then her tongue touched his tip.

“Kate, Kate, baby, please. I don’t think I can make it.”

She opened her mouth and licked his shaft, making him tremble with it, his legs shifting restlessly, and then her lips slid down his cock and she swallowed him whole.

\-----

She didn’t have a rhythm or any kind of seductive tricks; she just fucking went down on him. It was all tongue and mouth and the greedy clutch of her throat and it was agony.

He was going to die.

His hips thrust without his say, his hands were already tangled in her hair and trying to just hold on, and she was moaning around his cock like a porn star. Except he believed her. He believed her, especially when she parted her thighs and started grinding her cunt against his knees.

He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t stop. He was fucking her mouth and she was riding it, her fingers gripping his ass and her tongue and teeth and her throat, her throat so tight and swallowing, swallowing; he could feel every ridge.

How the fuck was she breathing, oh God, oh fuck, oh holy fucking hell, she was so tight around his cock.

Her cunt was wet and soft on his knee, and her throat was tight and rhythmically fluttering, her moans vibrated down to his balls, and he lost it. His orgasm shot out of him with a fucking force and she was sucking him off and swallowing it, gulping him down, humming and licking and cradling his balls.

The white noise of his blood pounding in his ears began to subside, the crest washing him out, and he could hear her now, hear the quiet words she was praising him with, feel the way she petted him and kissed him, gentling his cock.

“I got you, you’re okay,” her voice against his soft skin, “It’s so good with you, you’re so beautiful when you shout, when you lose all control.”

He propped himself up on his elbow and reached down for her, gripped her by the arm and dragged her up his body. “Right here,” he croaked. “Need you right here.”

She settled down on top of him, his flaccid cock trapped between their bellies where her slide up his body had caught him. He could feel himself twitching, and she probably could too, but she was stroking her fingers along his nipple, over and around, kissing him with these soft, gentle lips.

Some day, he thought she might love him back. If he could hang in there, if he could survive the months in Ireland without her, if he could watch his step and do the right thing, say the right thing, he might just be lucky enough to be loved by her in return.

Rick curled his arms around her and buried his nose against her neck, breathing roughly. “Best - best ever,” he rasped. “Didn’t mean to grab your hair, love. I hurt you?”

“Not at all, no. Never,” she murmured back. And then her head lifted and she touched her mouth to his jaw, a kiss of lightness in contrast to how thoroughly fucked he felt.

He was still breathing like he’d run an Iron Man, but he curled onto his side and brought her under him, lying his body out over hers. She petted the back of his neck and whispered things against his shoulder, secrets maybe, and he hoped he could keep them all.

\-----

“I’m still awake,” she said against his side. His cock had finally come back from that devastation of her mouth, but he hadn’t expected her to be awake. It was deep into the night and they’d both been dozing in between touching.

“You are?”

“One more time before tomorrow,” she murmured, her teeth dragging against his ribs. “Please.”

“Oh, love,” he whispered, rolling into her, cradling her face in his hands. He touched his mouth to hers and stroked his tongue inside; she moaned a little and slid her knee over his thigh.

She was still wet, sloppy wet from everything, all that touching and teasing they’d done that had made her so ready for him. He stroked his hand over her breast and kneaded around her nipple, dragged the back of his fingers down her torso to her sex.

She rocked into his hand and sucked on his tongue, moaning for him, and he wanted to do something different, wanted to love her, wanted to show her how good it was - and how much more he could give her.

He stroked her between her legs, over and over, soft and slow and languorous, working her, building it. When she started to suck in every little breath, he stopped and shifted.

“Do something for me?” he whispered against her ear.

Her mouth turned into his, a hot kiss that speared his guts. “Anything,” she rasped.

“On your stomach, Kate,” he said, pressing his hand to her shoulder blade in encouragement.

“I - never - okay,” she rasped, already laying on her belly with her cheek against the mattress. Her eyes watched him hungrily.

“Not that,” he promised. “We’ll get there eventually, when you want it. But I can slide into you from behind, love, and rock you back into me. You’ll see.”

He wasn’t sure how he knew she hadn’t done a whole lot of positions - he hoped, humbly, that it was because she trusted him in ways she hadn’t anyone else. But he shifted over her back and spread her thighs with his knees.

“Am I too heavy?”

“No,” she choked out.

She liked to be dominated. She didn’t know she did, or she didn’t want to admit to it, but she’d gotten off pretty hard when he talked about how he’d force out her orgasm in the kitchen.

“Are you ready for me?”

“I don’t know,” she moaned, burying her face in the pillow.

He chuckled and stroked her ass, pressing his thumb into her creased cheeks, and her hips danced up into him.

“I think you are, baby.”

She moaned something into the bedding, and he found her sex, dripping wet like he’d expected. She was writhing under him, so strong, and he pressed his knee into the mattress to keep his balance over her.

“Please,” she grunted. “Please.”

She probably didn’t even know what she was asking for, but he slid his arm under her hips and pulled her back into him, rubbed his cock between her legs.

She was moaning now, moaning and moaning, her elbows digging into the mattress for leverage as she pushed back into him. He got his hand to her sex and stroked to her clit, found it on the first pass. She gasped his name, her hips thrusting now, back and forth between his hand and his cock sliding between her legs.

She sank her teeth into his bicep.

Fucking hell, these love bites of hers undid him. Rick cursed and spread her wide with his fingers, then pushed his cock into her sex. She mewled and wriggled to get back against him, and he sank harder and deeper and tighter than he ever had before.

She was panting and her tongue came out to touch his bicep, making him groan over her. He started to thrust, short and shallow movements that struck her deep, and she dug her teeth into him as she writhed.

He got his rhythm, holding her body up against him, and started fingering her clit as she moved.

She keened and began to shudder, her orgasm taking hold of her, and he heard her calling his name, begging him, asking for it, more, whining, don’t stop.

She fell apart with a wild buck of her hips and he spilled out hard inside her, thrusting and groaning through his release.

When he collapsed on top of her, she hooked her arm back around his and drew him tighter, keeping him there, her body still shuddering with aftershocks of pleasure.

He kissed the back of her neck and tangled his captured hand through her hair, content and drowsy to stay.

\-----

She didn’t call in sick Friday morning, but that was okay. He figured it’d been a dream anyway, and she was up and moving before he could even crawl out of bed and get her coffee started.

She wasn’t a big talker in the mornings, or ever really, but she said even less as she sipped her coffee and curled up on the couch, reviewing the newspaper with the mug pressed against her sternum. He left her to her morning habits and got a shower, dried off with a towel so he could pull on his pants. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and glanced at himself in the mirror, as if seeing himself for the first time - or what Kate might see when she looked at him.

So he was surprised when she came up behind him at the bathroom sink and kissed his bare back, lips cool in comparison to the heat leftover from his shower. He went still and she kept tasting, her hands on his hips and her mouth brushing along his spine, over the muscles of his trapezius, her body a tantalizing buzz of distance.

He knew she had maybe fifteen minutes before she had to leave and she was so set on her routines that this wasn’t Beckett angling for sex. She didn’t do fifteen minutes of sex right before she had to leave for work; she just didn’t.

He didn’t know what this was, why she was touching him, what she might take from it. Her fingers ran along his ribs to meet at his chest, palms pressing flat over his pecs, and she embraced him.

Each rub of her mouth made him raw, like his skin was being scraped off to expose the nerves below. She laid her cheek to his shoulder blade and her body curved over his.

He hadn’t even made her breakfast this morning.

Richard lowered his toothbrush back to the holder, covered her hands with his. She slipped out of his touch and skated her palms down to his pants, teasing, before she was at his hips again and nuzzling her nose along his spine.

He didn’t speak, didn’t break the spell of her eroticism.

She placed a kiss to his back, tongue peeking out to touch him, and then she stepped away. Her hands trailed and fell from his hips, her heat disappeared, and when he could finally lift his head to look in the mirror, she was gone.

He had to sit down on the bathroom floor, stick his head between his knees, and breathe.

Maybe she already loved him. In her way.

\-----

He bought everything they would need, and a few things that were just wishful thinking on his part. Or promises for later, when he could get back.

The day went by faster this time, as he spent most of it in the city, seeing if he might pick up another tail. But he never did.

She texted him she’d be late getting off but he had already shown up at the precinct. He didn’t dare step within the radius of the surveillance cameras, but he wished he knew what was going on in there. Maybe another arrest and the processing was running long, maybe her arm had come to Mike’s attention finally and she was getting in trouble for not reporting it.

To say he was excited about their weekend was mildly understating things. He was so amped that the least little thing would set him off. Just thinking about it made him ache.

It was beginning to be impossible to tell where the ache came from, heart or cock, so indistinguishable were the two.

He couldn’t hang around without looking odd, so he headed down the block to Remy’s and ordered milkshakes to go. There were a few cops inside he thought he remembered from a couple nights ago, but it wasn’t like he was on speaking terms with them. They seemed to recognize him too, though, and Richard was starting to see how that might not bode well.

People weren’t supposed to remember him. He wasn’t supposed to haunt the same places; he wasn’t supposed to be showing his face this much.

Good thing they were staying in all weekend.

He took the milkshakes in their brown paper bag under his arm and then he headed back up the block to the 12th, contemplating what it meant to have ties in this city, to have routines that others could pick up on, to find himself going to the same places and seeing the same people and having them know him.

When he got close to the block that was usually his line of demarcation, Beckett was standing there alone, leaning against the concrete edifice. He grinned to see her waiting on him, but his grin slipped when he saw the cloud in her eyes, the brimming not again on her face.

She’d thought he wouldn’t show up?

“Beckett,” he called out, still across the street from her.

She straightened up from her lean and he saw the strange smile flicker on her face. He held up the milkshakes in offering and wriggled his eyebrows and the walk sign lit up. He hurried across with the bag cradled against his chest and met her at the corner, leaning in to grip her neck and steal a kiss, anxious and dark and needy.

She gave it back the same. There was a whistle from a pedestrian he’d crossed the street with, and then Kate’s fingers were at his neck, gentling him.

“Wow,” she murmured. “Hello to you too.”

“I missed you,” he grinned. “I got us milkshakes since you promised to come straight home with me tonight.”

“I did?”

“Come on,” he growled.

She laughed and her lips spread wide, her smile a little suppressed but still vibrant. “I don’t remember saying Friday. Saturday and Sunday, sure, but-”

“Everyone knows Friday is part of the weekend,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at her and nudging her around for the crosswalk. He was pointedly going the opposite from Remy’s, pushing her towards home.

“Everyone knows?” she murmured lightly. “Rick, you are the last person who knows what everyone knows.”

“What are you talking about?” Still, he managed to take her hand and lace their fingers together, tugging her across the street with him. She was in her NYPD coat, the cute turtleneck that rubbed at her throat, the shapeless army-fit black pants and combat boots. She was getting looks, respect and wide berth both, but she was only looking at him.

“I’m talking about not knowing what breakfast in bed is. Your notions of popular culture and general living are woefully inadequate.”

“Shit, you’re sexy when you use the big words.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, knocking against him.

“I know what breakfast in bed is now,” he said. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

“You’re thirty,” she muttered. “You should’ve known that by now.”

“Thirty-two,” he corrected.

“I figured thirty was bad enough. I was gonna give you those two years.”

He snorted, giving her a sly look. “I kinda hate you, Beckett.”

“You kinda love me,” she snarked back, grinning at him.

He let it go; he could be cool. “Kinda? What I kinda want is to fuck you, Beckett, but believe me, I don’t need your mouth to do it. I’ll have you gagged before you can think to protest. Calling me old.”

She laughed at that, but there was a breathless desire under it that made her eyes race across his face, her teeth catch her lip.

“Oh, I know you,” he murmured. “I know what you’ll like. I have plans for this weekend, Kate.”

She shivered and stepped in close to him, waiting with him to cross with the traffic. “I’m starting to really look forward to this weekend.”

“Only now?”

“My mistake,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

\-----

"So why'd you stay late?" he asked once they'd settled into their seats on the subway car.

She shifted and put her back to the window, drew her knee up into the hard plastic. She had a casual prepossession about her that struck him as a normally-hidden aspect of her true self, as if the woman within the uniform wanted out.

She hooked her fingers around the metal handle at the back of their seat and seemed to be contemplating her answer.

"Another big arrest?" he grinned, trying to tease it out of her. She usually snapped stuff back automatically - like snapping at bait - but not tonight. He worried then that she'd gotten in trouble. "Was it about the shoulder? Because I don't care what official reprimand they give you - you're a good cop, Beckett. You handled yourself better than most I've served with."

That seemed to loosen her; she released her hand from the back of his headrest and scratched her fingers at his scalp. "Thanks, but it's not that. Royce didn't even ask, so I guess I covered pretty well today."

"What is it then?" he asked, not daring to move. Her fingers trailed through his hair and then she tugged on his ear with another smile.

"I stayed after shift because a guy on Vice was working a case I want in on. I just did prelim drudge work, but they let me - that's the important part."

"Vice," he echoed, studying her eyes and how they drifted away from him. She was caught in it, whatever the case was, and she was staring past the aisle to some unknown vision, her gaze unfocused. But her fingers kept trailing around his ear.

"I'm on the case. If I do well, then they'll remember my name and ask for me next time."

"And then what happens?" he said softly. "Will you get assigned to Vice?"

"Hmm. I hope. They have highest turnover, I've noticed, so I have the best chance of moving up from there. Just gotta get in on it."

"Are you still on your probate period?"

She shook her head and finally her eyes returned to his. "I'm done. As of three weeks ago. I still ride with my TO for another six months though."

He grimaced; he didn't like her TO much, but if she didn't care, then he could deal. "I'm assuming that means you've got six more months before they'd assign you. Still, you're working it pretty fast."

"Yeah," she said, tilting her head and brushing her fingers along his ear. "Yeah, I've got a plan."

"I'm proud of you, Kate," he said. It just came out; he couldn't help it. She froze and her fingers went so very still right at the shell of his ear, and then she turned her head to glance out of the windows into the darkness.

He didn't apologize - wouldn't - and he didn't take it back; he just watched her absorb it and try to assimilate it. Her arm was still resting on the back of the seats, but her fingers had fallen now to his shoulder. But no farther; she hadn't moved away from him.

He was just about to take her fingers and kiss them softly, remind her of who she was with, when she turned her head fiercely back to him, eyes ablaze. "I'm going to make detective," she said clearly. "And then I'm going to Homicide. And then all this - this can finally be over."

For a wild moment, he didn't know what she was talking about other thanhim, and then his head cleared and he realized she meant herself. This version of herself, the woman struggling hard to get to the top, fighting off grief and the past and her father's alcoholism, the woman so rigidly in control that she was secretly falling apart.

He wondered, stricken, if she also meant them. That in any future where she was finally done with her old self, it would render him unnecessary as well. She'd be impervious; she would never be wild enough to take a soldier home from a bar and spend the week fucking. She'd have it altogether.

"Do you ever think about her?" Kate asked suddenly. Her cheeks went pink but she kept her gaze steady on his. "Do you wonder why she left you or what she's doing now or how you could - maybe you could get back to her?"

His mother. He wanted to say no; he wanted it to be true. He didn't need anything from that woman, and she'd made it clear she didn't need anything from him.

"I shouldn't," he answered finally. "She's not - I shouldn't."

"But you do," she whispered.

"But I do."

She sank down against him and - for just a second - laid her head against his shoulder. "I do too. All the time. I just want it to be over."


	11. Chapter 11

BACK TO HOME  
CHAPTER 1  
CHAPTER 2  
CHAPTER 3  
CHAPTER 4  
CHAPTER 5  
CHAPTER 6  
CHAPTER 7  
CHAPTER 8  
CHAPTER 9  
CHAPTER 10  
CHAPTER 11  
CHAPTER 12  
CHAPTER 13  
CHAPTER 14  
CHAPTER 15  
CHAPTER 16  
CHAPTER 17  
CHAPTER 18

ARMY INTELLIGENCE CABLE  
Operation 01: First Encounters, Section 011  
Friday night and she was shedding her clothes as they walked inside the door. His hands were trying to help but mostly just getting in her way. He wanted more of her skin, more of that heat and the way she got all breathless and frustrated when he touched her. He loved coming up at her back like this, enveloping her, running his hands up and down her body.

She groaned and knocked him away, yanking her pants down her legs and trying to stumble out of her heavy shoes. He was watching, entranced by the reveal, but she snapped her fingers in his face with an angry glare.

“Richard. Pants. Off.”

He chuckled but obeyed, his shoes getting kicked to one side. When he pulled his shirt off and his head came free of the cotton, Kate had stopped, her back to him, totally still.

“Kate. You’re still in your socks,” he laughed, stepping forward and pressing her into the wood of her kitchen table. She sucked in a breath and her hands gripped the edge, but she twisted away from his body and held him off with a hand to his chest.

In her other hand was the surveillance camera. “What. The Fuck. Is this?”

“Camera. But I got it covered; we can deal with that later.” He plucked it from her fingers and tossed it back on the kitchen table. “Come here, Beckett, you’re only half undressed.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, holding him off. “Don’t touch me. What the fuck do you mean you got it covered? Are there cameras up in my home?”

“Yeah, I mean - just-”

“Richard,” she said icily. “You put fucking cameras up and what? said nothing?”

He opened his mouth, closed it.

“And you’re recording us? You were just going make a couple porns and not even fucking tell me?”

He laughed, relief pouring through him, shaking his head in defense even as her face grew livid. “No, oh God, no. Kate. I’m not recording us. Shit, that’s hot but no. I didn’t realize that’s what you were thinking. No, it’s just security.”

She didn’t look much happier. “I don’t think you understand. You put cameras up in my apartment. Where I sleep. Where I fuck, you asshole.” She shoved hard on his chest and pushed past him, snagging her pants off the floor and moving for her bedroom. “And where the fuck are they, huh? You’re taking them down right now.”

His feet were rooted to the floor, ice water in his guts. “I - I can’t. Can’t do that. Kate, please. It’s not secure.”

She spun in the hallway, pointed her finger at him with a nasty look. “You know, when we met I catered to your damn paranoia. But this is too much. You don’t get to put cameras up in my place just because you have some kind of fucking shellshock. That’s not acceptable. Take them down.”

She disappeared down the hall and slammed her bedroom door shut.

Oh, fuck. She’d see everything he’d laid out on her bed in preparation for tonight. Fuck, fuck. He could not take the cameras down, and it wasn’t some stupid paranoia; it was fucking real. And he’d brought it to her damn door.

Richard rubbed a hand down his face.

Her bedroom door opened and Beckett came back down the hall in leggings and a t-shirt, holding a plastic garbage bag filled with - he was assuming - everything he’d bought for them. She dumped it at his feet and gave him a furious look.

“You don’t have the right to fuck with my life. This isn’t your place, your apartment, to do with as you wish. You cleaned my bathroom, you did my dishes - shit, Richard, you are not moving in. Don’t you get it?”

“It’s not-” he rasped, shaking his head and trying to keep down the flare of grief. “Not that. I swear. Beckett, give me a chance to explain-”

“No explanation makes it okay for you to do this.” She crossed her arms over her chest and he saw the hard seed of fear in her eyes; she was just beginning to let herself see how fucking deep she was, and how she had no idea who he was when it came down to it.

She had no idea. And he hadn’t told her.

“Kate, you’re not safe,” he started. Badly, yes, it was a terrible way to do this, but he had nothing else. He reached out and took her by the wrists, pulled her a little closer. “You’re not safe because I’m not safe. I was followed. It took me four hours to shake my shadow, and I’m pretty sure it was a team - I’m positive, actually, that there had to have been a second man I never saw at all. And I - I can’t be sure I didn’t bring that home to you, Kate, and I’m so sorry-”

“You’re fucking insane,” she hissed, yanking out of his grip. “You think people are actually following you?”

“Kate,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “It’s not - it’s my job. This is about my job. I haven’t told you everything.”

When she said nothing, when it was so quiet that he could hear his own furiously pounding heart, Rick opened his eyes and cautiously met her gaze. She closed her mouth and took a breath, her jaw tightening.

“I’m not in the Army,” he said finally. “I was attached to the Army - that’s true enough - I had a squad under me. But it was - it was a cover.”

“A cover,” she echoed. Her voice sounded hollow; her fists were clenched.

“I work for the CIA.”

She laughed, a shocked thing that had her clapping her hands over her mouth. He didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t bode well for him. She shook her head, swallowed down the noise.

“Kate?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“You’re... a spy?”

“Covert operative,” he corrected automatically, wincing when he heard himself. Shit, he sounded just like his father. “A spy.”

She laughed again, grunted and jerked back, away from him, but apparently only to sink back against the top of the kitchen table. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Oh, shit. Ireland.”

He lifted his head and gave her a weak smile. “Yeah. I have an assignment - I have to be there Monday, insert myself into an arms dealer’s organization.”

“Holy shit,” she whispered, her eyes wide on him.

He shifted on his feet and scraped a fingernail over his thumb, working at the patch of rough skin where he’d been burned, just before New York. It had already healed up, mostly, all that was left was this one ragged patch. “I, uh, I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking holy shit.”

He gave a short laugh, wished she’d say something, do something. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I didn’t think anyone would be looking, and I got sloppy. And someone found me.”

She jerked to her feet. “Someone found you?”

“I was followed. I’m certain I shook my tail, Kate, but I don’t know where I picked it up. So I got the cameras - they’re on a network and you can access them - I’ve also bought everything you’ll need to set up your own wireless connection, and I’ll do that before I leave.”

“But no one has - threatened you? Would it be... foreign spies?”

“It could be anyone,” he said apologetically. “I just don’t know.”

“Professionals,” she said quietly. “Because you’re a... spy.”

“I - yes.”

She turned her head and stared off into space; he could see her thinking like crazy, zipping through possibilities and scenarios and risks. He waited, kept himself away from her because he wanted her to make a rational choice about him. A choice under her own power, without his hands on her, swaying things. She needed to know - it was only fair she know what she was getting into with him - and if she chose not to get into it... well, he’d figure out how to live.

Kate let out a breath and turned to look at him. “We’re going to revisit this idea you seem to have that you’re allowed to put cameras up in my apartment. But right now. Right now, Richard, you’re going to take them all down.”

His guts tightened. “No.” He growled and tried to control it. “No, Kate. That’s non-negotiable. I’ve just let you in on a national security matter.”

Her mouth opened, her eyes sparking fire. And it burned. “So you’ve forced me into this. Is that it? You’ve told me your secret and now I’m stuck with the consequences.”

“It’s the reverse,” he said. “You don’t seem to get it - you were already stuck with the consequences. Now I’ve let you in on the secret because I can’t, in good conscience, leave you alone without giving you a fucking chance to defend yourself. I leave Monday morning, but these guys may not. They might stay. And wait for you.”

She was studying him now, arms still tight over her chest, but he saw she was listening at least. She didn’t seem at all fazed by shadowy men.

He cautiously moved forward. “I’d be happier if you had a true security system - alarm panel and sensors on the windows - but that’s not up to me. I installed two cameras - front door and the fire escape - because it’s just smart tradecraft for me to be more careful. Cover my exits.”

“You fucking asshole.” Kate let out an angry breath and scrubbed her hands through her hair, growling at him and stalking off. He watched her leave, heading down the hall once more and slamming the door on him.

His shoulders slumped and he sank back against the kitchen table. He should probably - she was going to kick him out and he wasn’t even sure he had the dignity to leave before it got ugly. He was going to beg; he could already feel it coming. He was going to beg her to let him stay, even if they didn’t get their weekend, even if all he was allowed was the couch.

Why? To protect her? She’d made it clear she didn’t need his protection, spy or no spy. The couch wasn’t appealing when he might have had her bed, but he’d made crucial missteps this week, the cameras being the least of them.

Rick bowed his head and pressed his thumb and fingers into his eyes, let the pressure spark rainbows in the black. Fuck, he was - such an idiot. He hadn’t given those damn cameras a second thought; he’d just done what he wanted.

She was never going to let him back in.

Fuck. Fuck, he’d ruined everything.

“Hey.”

His head whipped up and she was standing in front of him.

She was wearing that black teddy with the silver thread - the one he’d bought for her - her hair down around her shoulders. Her breasts were covered only by a thin black lace so sheer that he could see each dusky, pointed nipple. The silver decorated her hips and arrowed to her sex where the lace disappeared into a thong.

“Kate,” he croaked. “What are you...”

“For the camera,” she said, her eyes dark on his. “Grab the rest of that stuff and we’ll see what we can come up with.”

Holy fuck, she wanted to make porn?

\-----

He followed her back to the bedroom and she was already closing the wooden slats of her blinds. “Where’s the stuff?” she said, glancing at his pointedly empty hands.

“I - I thought we were in a fight?”

“No,” she said. “To fight there has to be - you know - shit to care about. I don’t care, Rick. You leave Monday morning. You’re a fucking bully, but it’s the fucking I really love. And the bully won’t be here on Monday.”

“Well, shit, thanks,” he said wryly, tried not to let that slice him open. She’d probably systematically rip out every single one of those cameras the moment he shut the door behind him.

“Just keeping it real,” she snarled. Kate growled and scraped back her hair, her eyes so dark and dangerous. “I want to fuck you - now more than ever - and I want to make you fucking beg me for it. So get over here.”

“You’re pissed.”

“I’m not pissed. There’d have to be something to be pissed about,” she snapped. Her nostrils flared, her jaw worked. “For example, you standing there in only your boxers, your cock already half hard for me, and doing nothing about it.”

“You wanna punish me, Beckett?”

Her eyes were so damn amazing; they showed him everything - how aroused she was at the idea of having him at her mercy - and nothing - how scarily blank she was to him right now.

“There are handcuffs in that bag of ‘stuff’ you laid out for this weekend,” she said. “Go get them and come back to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, turning on the spot to head back for the stuff he’d bought. He grabbed all of it, debated over the damn camera but - no, no, he wasn’t bringing that up again. She hadn’t really seemed in to the idea of making videos, and he couldn’t let his training slip that much. It had been beaten into him to leave no trace, and a fucking porn movie with Beckett was a lot of fucking traces.

He was pissed. He knew it, but he didn’t understand it. And he didn’t fucking care.

When he came back into the bedroom, she’d pushed all the pillows off the bed and shoved the covers to the foot. She came to him just inside the doorway and hooked two fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging him to the bed.

“Cuff your hands to the frame, Richard.”

He sank down onto the bed, dropping the bag and digging around inside it for the flexible cuffs. Something about doing it to himself, cuffing his wrist and threading it around the metal frame of her bed, then cuffing the other wrist, waiting for Kate to want him again - it made his cock pulse despite the anger.

Or maybe because of it.

“Purple fuzzy handcuffs?” She pushed on his chest and straddled his lap, up on her knees, fingers tracing around his wrists. “You were thinking about cuffing me, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Yeah, I want to cuff your hands behind your back and fuck you.”

She groaned and sank down on his crotch, hanging onto his biceps, her eyes darkening. “You do, huh?”

“Yeah. But I’m willing to wait. What did you have in mind?”

She sat up again, her knees gripping his thighs, and she scratched her nails over his nipples. He grunted and she grinned, deliciously pleased. “You put cameras up in my apartment, Rick. Like you have free rein to see me whenever you want.”

He chose the wisest course of action and kept his mouth shut.

“So I think you need to be taught a lesson,” she murmured. Her body leaned in over his and her fingers trailed at the sensitive skin just inside his arms, down to his ribs. “I think you ought to be blindfolded so you can’t see me at all.”

His heart rate kicked up. “Blind-blindfolded?”

“It’s an apt punishment,” she said decisively. “And you deserve to be handicapped.” She crawled off of him and he saw the twin cheeks of her ass, the black thong neatly diving inside. He groaned and already he could see how wet she was, how it stained the thong darker.

“Fuck,” he grunted. And she was going to blindfold him so he couldn’t see that, couldn’t see how much she wanted him. It was the only thing he had, the only thing from her he ever got, and she was taking it away from him.

If he couldn’t see with his own damn eyes how much she was into this, then how the fuck was he supposed to be reassured he was doing it right?

She came back to him on the bed, the black scarf dangling between her fingers. “I suppose you were going to do what with this, Richard? Tie my ankles down? Spread my legs apart?”

He cursed and his hips jerked, nostrils flaring as she slid over his chest again. She was wet; he could feel it now against his bare skin, damp places, and she leaned up to wrap the black silk around his eyes.

Darkness closed over him. It was already dark in her bedroom and now the silk shrouded everything else. She had folded it over a few times so that when she tied it behind his head, all he saw were the shadows on his cheeks when he strained.

“How’s that?” she whispered.

He realized his hands were shaking and he flexed his fingers, seeking something he couldn’t have. “I - I don’t - I can’t see.”

“That’s the point,” she said. Her breath skirted his jaw and then her lips dusted the corner of his mouth. But it wasn’t a kiss. “You don’t get to see. I’m taking it away from you, Rick.”

“But I really love watching you get so worked up for me,” he muttered. His thighs shifted to find her and she widened her stance, elusive.

“That’s why it’s called punishment,” she said. Her voice was throaty and scratched with her cold, but her fingers were making the hottest designs along his ribs. “And I’m going to make it hurt.”

He groaned and felt her mouth open and wet at his neck, her body hot on top of his. It was so dark, so black; he was so blinded by everything - each sensation was too much, rushing over him, and her hands were everywhere, her teeth scraping to pain and then back to tantalizing pleasure.

And then she was gone.

Entirely.

He cursed and jerked against the cuffs, turned his head to listen for her but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He growled and shifted his legs, but he couldn’t even sense her presence; she had totally removed herself from him.

It felt empty in the room; it felt dark and black and void.

Had she left?

Was she - she’d been so angry - he’d done something stupid, not even asking her, and he couldn’t seem to understand why she was so furious and that had made her even more mad at him, and he deserved it, he did, but had she left him here?

“Kate?” he gasped.

Not even a rustle. Not a breath. All he could hear was his own heart pounding, rushing in his body. He was shaking the mattress with it.

“You gotta - you gotta talk to me, Beckett.”

Was that her? Had that been the door closing? He’d been trying to secure his location, that was all; he was trained to secure his location, and God, okay, yes, he had wanted her secure too, wanted to protect her from threats foreign and domestic, that was his damn job, but she was so fucking angry with him and he was furious with her for tricking him into needing her so much when he had never needed a woman like this since-

He sucked in a breath and squeezed his hands into fists, jerked against the fuzzy cuffs but they were too rubbery, too flexible - he couldn’t twist out of them.

Since Colleen, and her betrayal, he had not made himself this vulnerable to anyone.

“Kate.”

She had tied him up and blinded him and she had left him.

Fuck.

Fuck, he - he didn’t like this. This was not okay.

“Please,” he begged, shifting in vain on the bed, hating himself for begging the empty room.

And then she was there, hot at his side. “That’s the magic word,” she whispered in his ear. Her tongue traced his earlobe and sucked, teeth nipping him. “You feel me?”

“I - I can feel you,” he stuttered, his heart beating so madly at her nearness, her touch, that he could barely hear her. He was light-headed with relief.

“I’m so wet,” she groaned.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

She was trailing her nails at his ribs, she flicked his nipples. “I wanna fuck with you, yeah,” she laughed.

He grunted and couldn’t help reaching for her again, caught short by the cuffs. She hummed, so pleased, and her fingers skated down his abs, plucked at the waistband of his boxer briefs, popping them. He gasped and his hips bucked.

Her chuckle was dark, pleased. “Gonna have to help me get these off you, baby.” Her fingers skimmed under the waistband, back and forth, just hitting the sensitive skin above his cock. He lifted his hips eagerly, trying to fucking help, but she kept teasing him.

“Beckett,” he growled. He was appalled to hear his own voice, how fucking airy and desperate it was, but the darkness was everywhere.

“Alright. Here we go,” she laughed. “Lift.”

He pushed his heels into the bed for leverage and she yanked his boxers down fast, peeled them down his knees, stroked his calves. He felt her perched there at his feet, and then she was stalking up his body, her heat hovering.

“You’re so restless,” she murmured. “You keep moving, your hips lifting, your toes curling, your knees shifting. You really want me, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” he growled. “Kate. If you - you need to-”

“What? What do I need to do?”

He groaned and tossed his head, wanting the damn thing off. Off. “You need - I mean - all you gotta do is what you need to do. I just, just, fucking - fuck, Kate, I can’t stand it.”

She purred. She was purring. Fuck.

Kate settled over his body and he groaned, the heat of her everywhere, sealing his skin.

Suddenly her mouth forced his open, her tongue thrusting inside him, and he felt penetrated - penetrated - her kiss devastating and insistent. He felt the jerk of resistance at his wrists again and groaned into her mouth, needing to fucking touch her, see her, he wanted to see the rise of her body and the way her concentration turned inward when she got close and the slope of her back under his hands and the light in her eyes when she was only playing.

When she didn’t hate him for this.

He felt friction against his cock and heat, a burn that made him yelp, and then the wetness that made his hips buck.

She was rubbing her sex against him.

He moaned and she breathed his name, her hands planted on his pecs and her body writhing, so strong and determined to have her own way. She groaned and rocked against his trapped cock - he was so hard, he was so hard and he wanted her so badly - and she bit his bottom lip and sucked.

“Fuck, fuck,” he grunted.

She moaned his name and he knew - he knew - he knew she was coming.

Kate ground her hips against his cock, the pressure inside him so intense he smashed his head back against the bed frame and listened to the metal clang inside his thundering ears.

And then suddenly she was gripping his erection and sheathing him in her dripping wet heat.

“Kate,” he shouted, thrusting violently inside her, ripping apart on an orgasm that shattered him.

\-----

“Oh, love, that was fast,” she breathed against him.

“Shit,” he groaned. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely catch his breath. His head pulsed. He was still blind in the darkness. “Your fault. What did you expect?”

She laughed and her tongue touched his neck, her kiss surprising him so that his hips jerked. Kate gave a little gasp, her knees tightening on his thighs. “But you - whoa - you recover fast too.”

“I wish I could see you,” he grunted.

“No.”

He felt the whine in his throat and couldn’t stop it; she licked his adam’s apple as if in reward, her teeth scraping down his neck. His heart rate was rocketing, his sweat uncomfortably sticking him to her sheets.

“Kate,” he murmured, shifting his hips. Her refusal hurt him; it was a wound he couldn’t lick clean.

“I said no,” she snapped back. “You put how many cameras in my place?” Her teeth caught his collarbone and her breasts pressed hard against him.

He sucked in a breath. “T-two.”

She hummed and rocked down onto him, making his cock twitch, blood pounding so fucking hard in his body. “And the one on my table was for what?”

He licked his lips - he was shaking; his body was rebelling against him, undone by the sensation of her all over him. “I was gonna ask if you wanted it - in here - for the window,” he muttered. He strained his hands against the cuffs but it was impossible. She was so strong, her muscles resisting him, her body clamped around his, her sex wet and silky against his hardening cock.

“So three cameras then.”

He scraped out a yes but it sounded broken, and she sat up, her ass nestling on his thighs and her body gripping his cock. He groaned and thrust his hips up into her, felt himself sliding higher and tighter inside her.

“Three cameras. One orgasm down - that means two to go.”

“You or me?” he croaked.

“Oh, love, you. Of course. Drag them out of you. Anyway. If we were going by my orgasms, this would be over all too quickly.”

He groaned, his breath coming fast and shallow, his blood pounding and pulsing up his arms so that he could feel it shooting inside his veins. Thrumming under his skin, powerful spurts of blood.

“Although,” she murmured, wriggling her hips over him so that he gasped. “The way that first one went, maybe we’re talking less time than I think.”

He cursed, but the darkness wrapped around him kept him from feeling ashamed of it. She’d dragged him straight to the painful edge of arousal and then she’d fucking dropped him off the cliff. What the hell did she expect?

“You think you can hold on a little longer this time?” she laughed. Her hips rocked again, her fingers trailing over his abs, and he gritted his teeth, groaning through it. “Maybe give it a few strokes before you come?”

“Fuck,” he growled. “No. No, I don’t fucking think I can, you keep - you keep - I can’t see you, Beckett.”

“And that turns you on?” she murmured, leaning in over him now, her breasts dragging along his chest. “You always have to be in control, always pushing me, always doing it your way, pretending you’re just being sweet or helpful.” He sucked in a breath, could smell her - sex and honey - and he groaned into the sudden trail of her hair along his neck. He loved that - he loved feeling her all over him - but he fucking wanted to see. “You’re not in control now, are you? Blind and in the dark. You have to hope I let you come. And you fucking like it so much you came the second you got inside me.”

“It - you - you just take me too far,” he growled at her. “I can’t hold on. At least if I can see you, I can - I know how to - I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, only-”

“Only you like it,” she whispered at his mouth. Her tongue slid around his bottom lip and she sucked at him, a vibration to her that made him vibrate too. His whole body was tense, on the edge; it was worse than the moment right before he jumped out of a plane, worse than the breath taken right before breaching an enemy stronghold.

“I...”

“You’re so hard inside me,” she murmured. “You went off so fast, Rick, and now you’re aching. I can feel you thickening inside me, against my walls, feel your rage.”

“Fu-fuck,” he stuttered, his hips jerking. Rage or madness?

“You’re going to come so hard this time, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he gasped. “You.. you’re so hot.”

“Is that why?” she mused. Her voice sounded like laughter, like she was so pleased that he was dumb with it. She was rocking slowly now, little short thrusts of her hips that made her inside walls clench around him. “You can’t even see me, Richard. How does my being hot help you at all?”

“I can - can feel you,” he groaned. He thrust up to force her rhythm, and she laughed, her hands coming to his shoulders as if guiding him.

But her amusement was dark, not playful, and she clenched her inside muscles as if to torture him.

His moan was high and terrible, his body geared up for a thing she wouldn’t allow him. She experimented on his cock, twists and swivels, slow drags down, infinite lifts upward again. He felt only what she allowed him to feel, saw nothing but the black inside of the blindfold, breathed air she had already expelled.

He kept trying - a knee coming up, hips jerking, contortions and thrusts - but she had the advantage. She did what she wanted, slowly and painfully, and he gritted his teeth and knocked his head against the bedframe.

It slowly became rougher. Nails biting him. Teeth to his nipple and twisting. And faster, her body meeting his, his cock pulsing every time he bottomed out inside her. His hands strained at the cuffs, but now she pressed her breasts to him, now she rode shorter strokes. She groaned and her teasing stopped, her voice quieted, just the feel of her body rubbing against his, the touch of their groins and the slick slide of her sex around him.

The cuffs rattled as he kept reaching for her, kept straining for her; he wanted so badly to run his fingers down her spine, to lift them and cup her breasts and squeeze. He wanted her so badly and all he had was her wet, hot cunt around him, gripping him as she rose and fell over him.

He couldn’t stand it; he wasn’t going to make it if she didn’t - didn’t do something.

“Kate,” he groaned. “Talk - talk to me. You gotta talk to me.”

She let out a breath, her fingers clenched on his shoulders. “No.”

“Please.” He heard the way his voice broke, heard the desperation. He didn’t like it but he needed her; he needed her. He couldn’t possibly do this without her.

Her hands cupped his cheeks, her breath skirting across his lips. “Now you say please?” Her voice was low and violent. “You ache for me, Rick? You want to hold me down and make me come?”

He groaned and lifted his head to find her, sucked a kiss from that mouth, trying to make her just as wrung out and needy and shaky as he felt.

Kate kissed him back, but hers had power in it. Her fingers stroked under the blindfold at his ears, her thumbs pressing into his cheekbones. He felt the way she slowed down once more, the rock of her hips into him, the clutch and release of her sex, the heat burning between them.

“Come on, baby,” she whispered, nuzzling her nose against him. “My turn to make you come, my turn to have you, my turn to make all the rules.”

“K-Kate,” he croaked. He just - he just really wanted to hold her. Oh God, if he could just hold her. She’d been making all the rules. She’d set the tone of every encounter. He didn’t get a say.

“For me, Rick. Come on. You’re so thick. Do you know how amazing you feel? Penetrating me, thrusting inside me, your cock throbbing. I could ride you all night like this, it feels so good.”

“Kate,” he moaned, straining upwards, thrusting harder for her.

“Yeah, oh - yeah, like that.”

“Kate, please, please-”

“Come on, let it go. Stop resisting me.” Her mouth wet on his jaw, the sensitive place at his neck. “You know I love it, being filled up with you. You know I can’t take it, how much you overwhelm me. I want you to know how it feels to be so devastated. To be devastated by you. Fall apart. Come for me.”

He shouted and thrust hard, bursting with his orgasm, a release of violence, a release of any pretense of control.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and laid over him, writhing with an orgasm of her own, rubbing herself off against him, entirely without his help.

\-----

He sucked in breath after breath, felt it catch on something thick in his chest, a choking that he couldn’t control.

“Hey,” she murmured, her fingers against his cheeks. “Rick. You okay?”

He sucked in another breath and she had the blindfold off before he could say a word, her fingers running through his hair and stroking his ears. Her thumbs brushed over his eyelids and he realized his eyes were still closed.

He opened them to the dazzling image of Kate Beckett sprawled on top of him, her face tender and questioning. “That better? Is that okay?”

He sucked in his breath again. Reeling still. “I’m - okay. Good. I’m good.”

She lifted up and reached for the handcuffs, pressing a release button he hadn’t even known was there. His hands fell free but she caught his wrists and drew his arms down slowly, rubbing his shoulders before cupping his cheeks again.

“You were kinda hyperventilating there. You okay?”

He nodded, drawing a rubbery arm up around her shoulders and pulling her down against him. “You said three.”

“You only really put up two cameras,” she offered, a kiss to his neck where she laid against him. “I think you panicked a little there, love.”

“No,” he refused, heard his own voice crack.

“No?”

“Just - intense. Never had intense before you.”

She was silent, stroking her fingers along his ear, her knees drawn up at his ribs to make her compact on top of him. She was still in that lingerie, the thong soaking wet at his abs and he hadn’t realized she hadn’t even taken it off. That scrap of material had been chafing, but he’d just... thought it was her.

“Never done that before,” he admitted, clearing his throat. His voice was raw.

“Never?” she said, lifting up to stare down at him. “You’ve never... what exactly?”

He winced and rubbed his palm up and down her back as sensation returned to his fingertips. “The cuffs and blindfold, either one.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Never?”

“Have you?”

She blushed. Kate Beckett was blushing. She dropped in close and kissed him, her tongue stroking inside his mouth and her fingers curling around his neck. He felt his breath shudder through him like relief, like settling in, and he tightened his arm around her to keep her close.

Kate kissed him again, lips soft and light, her eyes on his. “I never have,” she said softly. “Either way.”

“Either way,” he agreed. “Kinda hard to - you know - trust someone to handcuff you when you’re on the job.”

She gave a choked laugh and rested her chin on his sternum. “As a spy. Right, I would think that would be - counterintuitive. But you let me.”

He rubbed his hand up and down her back to keep her warm, to remind himself she was there, glanced at her. “I let you, yeah.”

“You trust me?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“But you’re a spy,” she murmured. “That’s - shouldn’t you - not?”

“Not trust you?”

She huffed and pressed her cheek to his chest, not looking at him, her arm tightening around his ribs. “In general. Anyone. You go around Ireland this naive, Richard?”

“Naive,” he laughed. “I’m not naive, Kate. Far from it. But you’re - you. Different. You’re different.”

She was silent on top of him, and while he liked it, the heat of her over him, he wanted, needed something else. So he rolled practically on top of her, and he buried his face into the tight, close space between her shoulder and her neck.

His whole body let go, released into her, a sigh falling out of his mouth.

Her arm snaked out from between them and wrapped around his back, fingers stroking his spine.

“You okay?” she said softly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Give me a second.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Long as you want. Didn’t mean to break you, love.”

He chuckled, torn apart with it, how easily she seemed to love him, or at least how easily he wanted to believe she did. It felt so good, everything felt so good with her, and it was Friday night, and he had two more days, two days, and she was wrecking him.

“If you didn’t like it,” she whispered, “we don’t have to do that again. We’ll put the handcuffs away, Rick.”

“No, no,” he groaned. He had to get his shit together; she was doubting it. “No that was - fuck, I liked it. Holy shit, Kate, I really liked it.”

She gave a little laugh and her fingers traced over the back of his neck. “Okay.”

“More than...” he groaned and nipped at her jaw, but his body was just wrung out. “That was - those were two of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had and so you just gotta give me a second to figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

Her breathless little laugh held a lot more relief in it than he’d suspected and so he shifted to touch his mouth to hers, a claiming, grateful kiss, sucking at her bottom lip and thrusting his tongue against her teeth.

She groaned and her body surged up into his; he hadn’t realized she was so ready. He dragged his hand down her breast, purposefully clumsy, crushing her nipple as he went so that she gasped. He scraped against the lace of her teddy, his heart already buzzing with need if not his cock. It’d come awake in a second though, the way she felt under him.

Kate gasped when his fingers plucked at the thong, her knees squeezing his hips. He tugged at the string of black material and she moaned in his ear, a throaty thing. He found her sex and rubbed the thong against her clit, making her tremble and writhe under him.

Her turn to feel chafed by the damn thing. “I believe you owe me one more orgasm,” he rumbled at her ear.

“I do?”

“At least one more,” he said. “So why don’t you put that blindfold back over my eyes and let me feel my way?”

She gasped and went still beneath him but he could feel her heart rate thrum violently, her arms clutching around his neck.

“You sure?”

“So long as I get to touch you this time, you can do whatever you want to me.”

She framed his cheeks with her hands and lifted her head to kiss him - hard - a force of nature beneath him.

“It’s right here,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes were alight, happy because of him. “You really did like it.”

“I like you all the time,” he said quickly, dropping a kiss to her lips. He felt the need to explain, to tell exactly what it meant, being at her mercy and having her - come through for him. “When I couldn’t see you, couldn’t touch you, it made me... ache for you. It made me want you so badly, Kate, so badly, that everything was more intense, every stroke felt like my heart was breaking.”

She chewed on her bottom lip as if she didn’t know whether that was a good thing, but she reached up with the black silk in her hands and caressed his mouth with the corner of the material.

“One more,” she said finally, and then she blinded him again.

\-----

He laid his forehead against hers and let himself feel. All of her.

She was panting across his cheek, one of her arms around his neck and holding him close to her. The teddy scraped him where they touched, the arch of her body making his skin raw with every sensation.

Rick pressed his fingers between her legs and stroked. She whined at his ear, a little gasp when he squeezed her clit, before she dropped back hard to the mattress. Her body came up again when he thrust his fingers along her folds, and it became a rhythm, a gorgeous meeting of her body against his hand.

She was whimpering now, little sounds that might have been words, and the darkness that wrapped around him made every touch, every hot and wet slide against her so much more. More. So much more. He could do this forever, stroking her up higher and higher, building her to a pleasure that could burst over them both.

Her hand clutched at his neck, a moan ripped from her throat. He could feel her heart pounding under his body, like a bird trapped, throwing itself against the bars of its cage. She mewled and her hips worked hard against his hand, but he went still, totally still, and then he withdrew his touch.

“No,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Oh, please, don’t stop, please. I can’t-”

“Shh,” he hushed her. “I got you. Trust me.”

Kate groaned and her mouth feathered against his jaw; he could feel the writhe of her body under him, desperate now and so strong. He knew where everything was, every spot that made her tremble, every raw and exposed nerve in her sex.

He touched his lips to hers and sucked lightly on her tongue, distracting her, seducing her mouth. She kissed him back ardently, fervently, her anxious moan echoing in his mouth and vibrating down into his chest. When she’d forgotten where his hand was, he pushed two fingers inside her.

She cried out and arched hard, gripping him, and he could feel every hot burn of her body against him. She was wild under him now, her need making her push back, and he worked in and out of her sex, thrusting and then widening his fingers and dragging them back out again. She was moaning, one of her hands gripping the black silk of the blindfold, the other clutching his shoulder and neck, her hips bucking hard into him.

“Please, please let me come, please,” she moaned.

He pumped faster, stroking that rough, thick spot inside her that made her keen, and then he crushed his thumb against her clit and pushed so deep that she broke apart.

Her orgasm was intense. It fell over her like a tidal wave, dragged her and tossed her around so that she jerked and clutched around him, the blindfold cutting into his cheekbones and her mouth biting at his jaw in a groan.

He pressed down against her, holding her to the world, keeping her safe until she was dragging in a hoarse breath and tugging the blindfold off his head.

He saw her under him, her skin pink and her eyes like stars in a dark sky. She cupped his cheeks and lifted her head and kissed him, taking his tongue into her mouth and stroking, curling, coy and tender and grateful.

Rick slid his hand out from between her legs and she shuddered, a breath releasing against his lips. He brought his fingers to her lips and stroked lightly; she darted her tongue out to lick, sucked on his finger. He pressed against her bottom lip, then lifted his hand to his own mouth, touched his tongue to the taste of her.

Sweet and sour, that clash of vodka and cherries that made his heart pound.

Suddenly her fingers were wrapping around his cock and stroking him through her folds, her thighs widening for him, her sex wet and inviting. “One more,” she murmured, kissing him again, again, like she liked the taste of them together.

“One more for you or me?” he rumbled, grinning into her kiss.

“Oh, you’re good enough to do both, aren’t you?”

He sucked harshly on her bottom lip and humped his hips into her hand, groaned when he happened to be lined up so perfectly that he thrust inside her.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Oh, that’s - you are that good.”

“Fuck, I think it’s you,” he grunted. “You’re so - so good. I’ve never - this is all like one big fucking first for me.”

She moaned and her hips danced up, making his cock slide deeper, tighter. He gritted his teeth and pulled back to stroke, pushing his way inside her. She had barely any resistance. She was breathless and panting already, and he struggled to focus, to find her and make it good, make her come too.

Her hands traveled down his back and squeezed his ass and he groaned, his cock thickening that much more. It made her growl and her knees came up, so Rick hooked an arm under her thigh and settled her leg over his shoulder. He went deep, and she shouted, bucking hard.

Her orgasm crashed down over them both, frantic and pulsing, and he was coming, he was fucking losing it inside her, rocking out a desperate climax even as she whispered yes, yes, oh, love into his mouth.


	12. Chapter 12

He couldn’t hold on to her when she crawled out of bed; he was boneless and drifting on the leftover exhaustion of love. She patted his cheek and kissed him. “Be right back. Don’t move.”

He grunted. “Couldn’t for the world.”

She laughed as she left him, her fingers trailing over his jaw, his chest, his hip, and then gone. He watched her walk down the hall and into the bathroom and he sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face into her pillow. It smelled of her - lemons and honey and sex. Sometimes he thought he caught the faint whiff of blossoms, the heavier scent of flowers that bloomed deep and fragrant.

Cherry blossoms like they had in Turkey, that elusive and beautiful reminder of spring and hope. He wondered why that woman had never caught him like Kate had; why no woman had ever caught him like that. Kate just - she just was - everything was different. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said she was a first.

He’d never allowed it; his life was structured down to the last detail. He did what his father ordered him to do but this-

He realized the toilet had flushed a long time ago, but she hadn’t come back to bed. He shifted onto his side and glanced down the hallway, saw the light on in the kitchen.

What was she doing?

He thought better about bellowing her name down the hallway, dragged himself out of her bed and stumbled on feet that didn’t seem to want to work. He laughed at himself and found those bedraggled sweatpants, jerked them up over his hips before heading down the hallway.

When he got to the kitchen, Kate had her back to him, a solitary glass of water in her fingers at her side, standing perfectly still. No longer naked, she’d found his t-shirt, and she’d pulled it on.

“You look pretty sexy in my shirt.”

Her head turned and her eyes were troubled, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Did you do this?”

He froze, the smile dropping off his face. “Uh. I swear only the two cameras.”

A laugh cracked out of her, her hand came up to her cheek and she shook her head. “No. I - shit.” She stepped to one side, gesturing to the back of the sink where he’d placed the purple tulips in the window. “You got me flowers?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I got myself flowers. Your place is so industrial, Beckett.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“And you missed those,” he said, pointing to the bottle of flowers he’d gotten her at the beginning of the week. “Shop told me they’re foxglove.”

Her eyes lifted to the top of the fridge where he’d placed them and she huffed a long breath.

“Those were for you,” he admitted.

“Rick.”

“But you were sick and you never even saw them. Plus I brought bagels but I dropped them when I - uh - let myself in.”

“You’re a bully, you know that, right?”

“I just know what I want to happen and I make it happen.”

She glanced back to the flowers at her sink and trailed her fingers over the metal counter. “You really do.”

“Yes.”

She reached up to grab for the bottle on top of the fridge, all the way up on her toes just to catch the lip with her fingers. He didn’t help; he watched the long length of her body stretch, the grace of her movement, the youth and beauty and surety.

“You’d make a good spy,” he blurted out.

She stumbled back with a laugh, the flowers caught against her chest to keep them from falling. “I just missed two bouquets of flowers you bought me.”

“Only one.”

“Fine. One you bought for me; one you bought for yourself. As you say. And yet I’d make a good spy?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “You’re graceful, self-possessed, strong-willed. You know what you want too, Beckett. You make it happen.”

She settled the flowers on the counter - they looked a little wilted - and she poured her glass of water into the bottle. “I don’t know about that, but - yes - I’m confident. I can see exactly what I want for my life. And... flowers aren’t part of it, you know.”

“Why not?”

She frowned, her fingers skimming around the bottle. “Because my mother was murdered and that’s what my life is about.”

He reached out and cupped the side of her face, but he knew that was the wrong move immediately, so he gripped her neck instead. He dragged her into him and made her stay, breathing out slowly against her forehead.

“Baby, you could do anything you want. That’s what I’m telling you. Anything - you have it too, the ability to make it happen.”

“I’m going to find out who murdered her.”

“I know.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“No, Kate. I’m not. I know you will. Because I can help with resources-”

“The fuck you will.” She wriggled like she was trying to get away from him, and he decided he should probably let her go. When she turned on him, she looked absolutely furious. “You have no right-”

“Is this a fight we’re not having again?” he smirked.

She punched his arm; he snagged her wrist and twisted her up against him. Fuck, she had a vicious left hook. Left. He supposed he was glad she hadn’t gone with her dominant hand.

“Let go of me,” she growled.

“Hey, wait.” He released her wrist, tried to smooth it over by running his fingers down her arm and feathering to the hem of her shirt. “Wait, baby, give me a second to explain. You’ll-”

She was trying to get away from him, knocking his hand away. “You have nothing to explain. You’re not touching my mother’s case.”

“Kate,” he tried again, reaching out to her again. He snaked his arm around her waist and slid his other hand up under shirt, stroking her thigh and feeling the material of the teddy. She’d taken off the underwear, but the top must still be on. “Kate, love, I just want to help. I’ve got resources, big fucking super computers. There are things we can do.”

She was so stiff, so rigid; she’d shut him out and he didn’t know how to get back in. Everything he said made it worse.

“Kate, baby, please. I’ll drop it. I just want to - you’ve been so much for me, Kate, and I just want to do something for you. My whole life, I’ve never had the chance to really - to feel like this, and I want to do that for you, I want so badly to-”

She reached down and gripped his wrist, tightly, her eyes dark and angry. “What you can do for me is fuck me. I don’t want anything else. I have a plan; I am following the plan. I know exactly what has to happen; all I need to do is get my detective’s shield and I am opening that case and it will end.”

“I know,” he rasped. “I know you will. I don’t doubt it, love; you’re a force.”

She was brittle with anger, her chest rising and falling, her eyes bright like she might cry. He didn’t want that; he didn’t want to ruin things. Two days - all he had left - he didn’t want to do anything that might get him kicked out.

“Let me fuck you,” he murmured, sliding in closer, trying to break her grip. He used his other hand to catch the back of her neck. “Let me touch you, Kate. I can do that; you know how well I can do that. I want to handcuff you now, hands behind your back, fuck you hard.”

She grunted, and he felt her sway into him.

“Yeah, baby, like that. You ever been fucked when you can’t touch?”

“No,” she breathed out.

“Well, I just was - pretty damn intense, love - and you’d like it. Wouldn’t you?”

“How?”

“How?” he echoed, stroking his fingers under the length of the shirt and sliding up to her sex, teasing, barely touching.

She grunted, shifted on her feet. “How would you fuck me if my hands are behind my back?”

“Couple ways. Standing up,” he murmured, touching his lips to her cheek. She shivered and he felt her breath catch. “Or I could sit you on my lap in that chair in your living room.”

“Oh?”

“Or-”

“Chair,” she ordered, her eyes opening and flaring on his. “Right now, Rick.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. “You forgive me?”

“We’ll see,” she rasped. “Better make it fucking good.”

“Baby, it’s gonna be so good,” he whispered and closed his mouth over the pulse in her neck and sucked. Hard.

She grunted and jerked into his hands; his fingers slipped between her legs and along her clit, making her moan. He sucked harder at her neck, dragging a hickey up at her skin, right at the place where her NYPD shirt always scratched at her.

Her arm came up and hooked around his neck, clinging to him, and he knew he had her again. He’d saved it.

He’d never bring up her mother’s case again.

\-----

She was wild over him. He’d never seen her like this. The teddy had been stripped off, the shirt gone, and the moment he’d cuffed her wrists behind her back, it was as if everything else had been stripped away as well.

Everything.

This was Kate Beckett, writhing and demanding and desperate in his lap. She took him deep, his cock so damn hard it hurt, and she moaned every time he stroked inside her. Her head was tilted back, but she kept drawing her chin down to stare at him, like she couldn’t quite believe it, and there was something intractable and commanding and so very dark about her that he it took his breath.

They were working her chair to its grave, no doubt.

She leaned back to put her hands on his knees for balance, but he reached around her back and yanked on the chain of the cuffs, keeping her from touching him, keeping her from any control over it at all. It made her moan and her knees clenched at his hips, her breasts thrusting towards his face.

Rick wanted to do a whole - thing - a whole fucking thing with her breasts, but not right now. Right now he wanted her to ride him, but under his command. He kept his arm firm at her back and his hand gripping the chain so that she couldn’t get a stable position, and he spread his other hand at her belly to feel his own cock moving inside her.

She was moaning again, her lashes fluttering as she stared down at him, and he pistoned his hips to fuck her harder, going so deep that every clutch of her cunt was excruciating. He pressed the heel of his hand down against her abs as he thrust, and she writhed, her eyes rolling back. He could feel how fucking good it was for her, feel her unraveling before him.

She was coming apart at the seams; all that tightly-held and disciplined stoicism that she never let go was finally fraying out to nothing.

She wanted to be dominated; she wanted him to dominate her, to make her release, let go, give it up, and he had the sudden sharp realization that it was only possible because she’d done it to him first.

She’d fucking broken him open, cracked him wide, and that had turned her on so much - that delicious power to unmake him - that she’d willingly put it back in his own hands.

She was erotic and naughty and sublime and - and beautiful - she was so beautiful that his cock ached with every thrust inside her, and he wanted it to never end.

He ground the heel of his hand down into her abs, harder now, that thick wall of her womb trapped between his cock and the force of his hand. Harder again, every thrust, rocking into her, touching her deep. She tensed up, her knees drawing into her chest and her body grinding down on him until she screamed. Her orgasm was intense; it rattled her against him as it went on and on.

Fuck.

He kept his cool, kept himself hard inside her, gritting his teeth through her spasming and clutching and fucking hot as fuck, fuck, she was so fucking amazing, but he kept it together, kept in control.

Finally she collapsed against him. She was sprawled over his lap, little shudders racing through her body, her mouth open at his neck and breathing in shallow bursts.

He released the chain of the cuffs and dragged his hand up her back, cupped her neck and softly kissed her temple. But he wasn’t ready to give her even a chance to recover. No, that wasn’t what being fucked hard was about.

“Now you’re going to get down on your knees and suck me off, Beckett. You did say one more.”

She grunted something dark and groaning against him, but he gripped the back of her neck and pulled her away from the haven of his body. She stared back at him with drained eyes, like everything had been pulled right out of her.

Good. That was what he’d been trying to offer her - no more, no less. The ability to fucking unmake everything and just feel for a while. Just let it all cascade over them. He wanted to do that for her as much as he possibly could.

So what if she kept her mother’s case strictly to herself, so what if she had a plan? This could easily be a part of her plan. Flowers and fucking - he could make it work.

“On your knees, Kate,” he said quietly. “Come on. You said you wanted to know what it felt like without the throat perles.”

She groaned and her body seemed to wilt to the floor, the ends of her hair dragging over his inside thigh. It was wavy with sweat and sex, no longer that sharp, spiky, flat-ironed sophistication.

He liked this better, how making love to her had rearranged part of her plan, had made it a little messy, a lot sexy - better. How it had been before had been fine, perfectly fine, but like this, like this, couldn’t she see this was good too?

He’d make her see.

She nuzzled her nose against his still-hard cock, sighing a breath that made his hips twitch.

“How am I supposed to do this without touching you?” she muttered. She was placing open-mouthed kisses along his inside thighs, turning her cheek to rub against his cock.

“I think you’ve already fucking figured that out,” he grumbled. “But at least this way, I can show you how slow I want you to go.”

He cupped her cheeks and stroked his thumbs over her skin, brushed that gorgeous hair out of her eyes so he could see her. She looked up at him with a slow lick of her lips.

“Yeah, love, you don’t need me to tell you what to do. But let me fuck your mouth, yeah? Let me guide you down over me.”

She hummed and her lips parted immediately, her tongue touching the head of his cock. He let out a breathless groan, struck a little stupid with how that felt, his hands still gripping her head, and then he lowered her mouth to take his cock.

“Whoa, fuck,” he gasped. Hot and wet and close, so wet sinking down on him, and then she sucked hard and pushed his cock up against the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “Fuck.”

He couldn’t help the little jerk of his hips, but she rode it back, not letting him down any farther, and he didn’t force it. He cradled her head and made short thrusts, feeling her cheeks hollow under his palms.

She was so fucking gorgeous; he could barely stand to watch. His cock half-disappeared in her mouth, her lips over him, her lashes dark on her cheeks as she took him.

“Oh, love, oh fuck, you feel so good. I’m gonna have to come in your mouth, baby. I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

She moaned around him and he cried out, thrusting sharply. She seemed to be ready for him because she sank her head down the moment he surged into her, and he felt his cock hit the back of her throat.

And then she swallowed.

“Fuck,” he croaked.

She swallowed again, again, forcefully, and he could feel her throat working to gag, but she just kept fighting it back, kept her head down and her tongue curling around him, and her mouth sucking, her hot, wet, tight mouth, and then he was down her throat, all the way, his whole fucking cock swallowed up by her.

“Kate, Kate, fuck, I was - I didn’t mean - I’m gonna come, baby, fuck. I’m gonna - you gotta let me out so I can come,” he barked.

She moaned around him and he lost it.

He came on a harsh cry.

She didn’t even choke; she just swallowed and swallowed and sucked on him until he had nothing left. And then she slowly slid off his cock and kissed his inside thigh, licked at his hip bone, strung together a line of kisses up his chest to his mouth where she settled in his lap and gave his taste back to him.

He moaned around her tongue, wrapped her in his arms, and vowed then and there to get back to her, whatever it took.

He’d find a way. A weekend would never be enough.

\-----

Rick released her wrists from the handcuffs and worked her arms back around to her chest, pressing her down against him. “Did you come?” he murmured. “While you sucked me off.”

“Yeah,” she said. A grin. The flash of her teeth rather half-hearted.

“I thought you had,” he murmured. He touched her gently between her legs and she mewled into his chest and he knew it was enough for now. Enough. She might want more, but she really couldn’t handle it. Time to rest.

She was curled with it, like she’d been knocked silly, and he easily picked her up and carried her back to bed.

It was late now, and they’d gone at it full tilt - she always did things like that, didn’t she? - and now he could curl up at her back and wrap his arms around her and make her stay close. She was asleep before her head even touched the pillow, and he breathed out against her neck and slid his knee between hers to be everywhere, all around her.

She was so warm in his arms; she was probably running a slight fever, yes, but he knew it was more than that. It was being fucked hard and the emotional shit they’d dredged up between them, it was having everything get turned inside out and liking it. It was coming apart when she’d been trying for so long now to just keep it all together.

He stroked her back and the rise of her hip, kissed her shoulder blade and the sweat from her neck. He couldn’t possibly fall asleep, not when he only had two more days with her, but he loved this, being quiet with her, drifting, finally feeling at ease.

She made him think about things; she made him remember. Pieces of his mother he’d thought long gone, memory snagged on a nail, their time together dragging up things he’d never realized or thought about before.

His mother had been in plays. Big productions with lots of costumes and sets. He’d knocked his head into one and it had bled profusely and his mother had grabbed the lady who did costumes and she’d stitched him up; he still had the scar above his eyebrow. He’d had a cold once, felt miserable, had curled up in her dressing room with a blanket thrown over the radiator and shivering and sweating and she’d brushed her fingers along his forehead in between acts.

She might still be alive; he’d never considered it before Kate.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere and he shifted, annoyed at the interruption, but it might be her father.

Richard eased himself away from her, tugged the blankets and covers up tighter around her body so she'd be warm enough. His sweatpants were nowhere in sight, though he figured they were dumped on the floor of her kitchen where she'd attacked him. He padded naked down the hallway looking for her phone, found it lying on the kitchen counter next to the flowers and the empty glass of water.

He scooped it up and answered before it could disturb her sleep; it was nearly one in the morning.

"Last call," a voice on the other end said.

"Last - ah, you have Jim Beckett there?" Richard said quietly.

"You that cop's husband or something?"

"Yes," he said. "Is my father-in-law there?"

"Yeah, we got him. Last call and he's not moving. I'm gonna have to call the-"

"No, no, don't. I'm coming to get him. Which - the name of your establishment, please."

"It's the Old Haunt, down on-"

"I know it," he said quickly. "Please let him keep his seat. It will take me twenty minutes."

"Sure, buddy, whatever."

The phone call ended and Richard let out a long breath, shoulders slumping. He found his boxer briefs in the living room and tugged them on; his jeans were in a heap on the couch. He carried her phone into the bedroom with him and dug another black t-shirt from the pile of laundry he still hadn't taken care of.

He knelt down beside her bed and warred with himself over it. But it was her father, and her right, not his, and he should at least tell her.

He brushed his fingers along her cheek, drawing the hair away from her face. She didn't stir; she didn't move. He had to lean in close and stroke softly through her hair, call her name a few times before her eyes opened.

"What," she mumbled.

"You got a call. But I'll take care of it, love. I gotta go."

"Go?" she murmured. Something more alert struggled behind her eyes. "What?"

"I've got it; don't worry. I know just what to do. I'll be back in a couple hours."

She blinked at him and then her fingers uncurled from their tucked up place at her chest, touched him. "Home safe."

"Yeah, of course," he hummed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, her mouth. "It's fine, love. It'll all be fine. I won't let anything happen to him."

She was already drifting to sleep, and if he was surprised she was letting him take care of her father, he figured it was because he'd worn her out. Plus he'd gone twice already with her.

Just in case she hadn't been quite with it, Rick found a purple notecard in her desk drawer and scribbled a note in a fat sharpie, Picking up your dad. I'll get him home safe.

And then he grabbed her extra key and his own phone, and he locked the door behind him, heading out into the one a.m. darkness.

\-----

He'd found the bar after a couple of wrong turns, the directions he'd memorized from a map in a gas station open this late - not exactly reliable intel. Still, he made good on his twenty minute prediction, if off by a few minutes, and he stepped into the bar and found her father snoring against the wood counter.

It was a really nice place, classic, a sense of tradition, and he admired the man's choice and taste in establishments. Jim Beckett seemed to go about it with good intentions, remain classy, and it degenerated from there. Kate was usually finding him in dives by the time she got the call.

Obviously, Jim was an alcoholic, choice establishments aside.

Richard nodded his thanks to the bartender, and he headed for Jim, gripped the man by the shoulder to roughly shake him awake. Her father, just as he'd done the last time, snapped to it quickly, looking more alert than he had any right to.

"Jim," he said quickly. "Come on, man. Time to go home."

Her father gave him a more bleary look, a little less put-togetherness in his eyes, as if seeing it was only Rick had allowed something in him to let go. "Ah, Rick. Thanks, son."

"I didn't want Kate to have to do it," he said shortly. He realized now he was angry, furious with Jim for being both a better father than his own and so much worse at the same time. "She loves you, and this is killing her, you know."

The bartender snorted and clanked a washed glass onto the bar. "Look, buddy. He ain't gonna stop just 'cause you're guilt-tripping him. He's gotta fall the to the very bottom, the blackest black, before he can even think about looking up."

Richard gritted his teeth. "Thanks for the advice."

The bartender held up both hands. "I'm keeping out of it."

Which he was so clearly not.

"Come on, Jim. Let's get you home."

"At least Katie's not here," Jim sighed. He had a fumbling grip on the bar to keep himself upright, and then he pitched violently towards the floor. Rick caught him, using his own momentum to swing him back to a standing position.

The bartender whistled. "No wonder she sent you after him. You're quick, man. You don't know how many times I've seen her get dragged down with him. Should be you every time."

Rick cast the man a baleful look. "Thanks, buddy, but I'm active duty. I don't get to be here much." Next time, the asshole could just refuse Jim service if he wanted to be so much help.

The bartender threw up both hands in that same surrender gesture, finally backed off. Rick growled curses under his breath and half-carried Jim back outside the bar.

"We need a cab," Jim said, though his words were muddled.

"No," Rick answered, his throat tight with it. You don't know how many times I've seen her get dragged down by him. "No, we're walking, Jim. Your place isn't far and maybe it'll sober you up."

"I'm really not - very good at walking right now," Jim said, still dignified, still poised. "Son, I appreciate this, but a cab."

"No," he said again. "No, you don't get to slump home in a cab in style. You walk with me and we're gonna have a talk."

"Son," Jim sighed, but whatever else he might have said in his defense was lost in the darkness.

\-----

Richard gripped her father’s elbow and pushed the man down the sidewalk. No cab; Jim needed to feel it, needed to get down to that blackest of black, needed to think that there was no support left for him in order to make a change.

“You can’t keep doing this to her,” Rick said then, felt his jaw clench as he thought of Kate. “I leave on Monday, back to the service, and she’s got to deal with your shit alone.”

Jim stiffened, but Rick didn’t care. Someone had to say the hurtful things or it would become an unbreakable chain.

“Don’t you see how it chips away at her? To constantly be carrying you home?”

“She shouldn’t,” Jim sighed.

“You keep saying that,” Rick growled. “And yet here we are.”

“At least it’s you,” Jim murmured. He seemed to get with it the more they walked, the cold wind bracing. “Not her. It shouldn’t be her.”

“Who else is it going to be?” Rick shouted. He had to take a breath and calm down, not grip the man so hard. “I apologize, sir. That’s not respectful.”

“No, no. I deserve it.”

“Jim,” he sighed.

“I do. I know. I don’t go in thinking, tonight I’m going to embarrass my daughter-”

“She’s not embarrassed, Jim. She’s crushed. You’re killing yourself and she’s running after you trying to hold you and herself together.”

“I know,” Jim croaked. “I know it.”

“Then do something about it,” he said, but he felt the pointlessness of it. Felt the frustration of running up against a wall. “What happened to her?” he said instead. “Kate’s mother. Murdered, I know. But I want to hear it from you.”

Now Jim was silent.

“No, tell me. You tell me how it was for you. Kate said - she told me the story in that way she does, a police report. You tell me.”

Jim gave a choked noise.

“You can do it,” Rick said. “You can tell me. I’ve seen shit you don’t even... it’s not like it will shock me. It’s not like you’re gonna give me information that Kate hasn’t. You know your daughter and I are...”

“I don’t think that’s something I need to know.” Jim gave a dry chuckle. It sounded like a poor attempt to change the subject.

“What Kate and I are doing - whatever she thinks is going on - I know what I want out of it.”

“What’s that, son?”

“Everything.”

Jim jerked his head to Rick so fast that he stumbled and nearly went down; he wasn’t as steady as he appeared, not as sober either. Rick wondered if he’d remember any of this tomorrow.

He righted the man and helped him catch his balance before they went on.

“She hasn’t got much to give,” Jim said tightly. “That’s my fault, I know. And her mother - it changes things for her. For both of us. I don’t know that you’re going to find Kate willing to give - everything.”

“Maybe not, but I know what I want. It’s her. She’s - I don’t think you understand, but I’ve got my own shit, my own limitations, and what she can... she’s just everything I didn’t know I needed.”

“Oh, son,” Jim sighed, shaking his head. “She’s... certainly special. She’s worth more than you know.”

“So you tell me why you can’t get a handle on this? For her. For your daughter who’s special. Who needs her only surviving parent.”

Jim sucked in a breath that then didn’t release, like that was his life - waiting for a breath out.

“Why, Jim? What happened that made it impossible to face your daughter?”

“My wife died,” the man said. The lack of grief in his voice made it all the worse. Dull and flat. As if Jim had died as well. “And this isn’t - her mother - that’s not something I can tell you. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Rick shook his head, his throat closing up. “Then let me - let me tell you a different story,” he rasped. “One of mine.”

“Rick,” her father sighed.

But he had to. “When I was five years old, my mother left me. I was at boarding school, and I’d gotten kicked out, and she just didn’t come for me. To pick me up. Turned out she was never going to be coming back for me. I didn’t even - until I met Kate, that was just a fact. It wasn’t a feeling; there was nothing there.”

Jim shuffled to a stop at the crosswalk, giving Rick a serious look. “Where’d you go?”

“A car pulled up, the driver stepped out. The headmaster was standing with me and he said, you’re going home with your father.”

“Ah, your father. That’s good.”

For the first time in his life, Rick knew the answer to that. “No, sir. No, good is the furthest thing from what it is.”

Jim had just started to step into the crosswalk, but he stopped and turned to Rick. “Ah, son. I...”

“So yeah, I know I don’t mean anything to you, Jim. But until Kate, I didn’t even know what it was I didn’t have. And I know I’ve got no right to ask, but I want to be for Kate what she’s been for me, so I’m asking. I’m asking you to get help. Jim. I’m - shit - I’m begging you to get help. Because you’re what she’s got, and she’s what I got. And I don’t even really have her. I just hope.”

Jim stood motionless just inside the crosswalk, his hands limp at his sides, and his eyes dark and churning, finally coming alive.

“Son.” He took a breath and shook his head, turned and headed unsteadily for the other corner.

Rick followed, that raw part of him made small again, like he was five years old and standing alone in the dark and the cold near the door, waiting for his father to come outside and finally let him in.

But he followed Jim Beckett because he knew - eventually - her father would.

His hadn’t. But hers would.

\-----

When he’d gotten the door open and Jim inside finally, her father stood in the hallway just before the threshold of his bedroom and he rubbed his thumb over the wood at the frame. “It was here.”

Rick stood just behind him. “What?”

“She was killed right here. Jo-Joey. Shot in the back. Trying to - to get to safety. I don’t know what she thought. That haunts me, that she was running to our bedroom because she thought she’d be safe. I’d keep her safe.”

“Were you here?” Rick asked, confused by the man’s rendition.

“No, son. But my - this our bedroom. Everything of us began and ended that day here. She ran to me.”

Jim’s shoulders slumped and he shuffled past the doorway and inside that room - a room he was running to and from at the same time. Rick watched him sit down on the bed and stare off into space, that blank look falling over his features once more.

She ran to me .

And Jim hadn’t been there for her.

That’s what took him. That’s what put his hand around the bottle and kept him in the apartment where his wife had been murdered. That’s what he couldn’t let go of.

And Rick couldn’t blame him. He was beginning to sense the same response in himself, knowing he would have to leave Kate in two days.

He came on into the room and sank down on his knees before Jim, reached for the man’s shoes. He unlaced them, pulled them off Jim’s feet, and then stood up again.

“Sleep it off, sir,” he murmured. “It’s okay. Just - sleep it off.”

Jim’s hands flexed over his knees. “I don’t know if you got her or not, Rick. I don’t - she doesn’t tell me things, no small wonder. But even if she can’t - I don’t know that it’s worth anything to you, if I’m even worth anything, but if you need me, son, I can be someone. Best I can.”

Richard sank down on the mattress beside Jim, sucking in a breath that just wouldn’t come. Her father patted Rick’s knee as if he knew.

“Thank - thank you, sir.”

They both sat in silence for a long time, and then Jim sighed. “I don’t know how to do this without Jo. Even if I could find a way to want to, I don’t know that I can.”

“You’d leave Kate?” he rasped. “Just like that?”

“Only reason I haven’t yet,” Jim admitted. He rubbed a hand down his face and sighed again. “That’s depressing. But I don’t - my wife was - I don’t know how to do this.”

“The drinking helps?”

“Something to do. Something to keep the edges dull. Only way I’ve found to sleep.”

“Jim, I think this place is killing you. And Kate too.”

“Like it killed her?”

“Maybe so.”

Jim grunted something but apparently he was too drunk to be offended. He was so humble like this, so down.

“Jim, tomorrow, Saturday, can we come by and take you out to breakfast? Or maybe meet you somewhere?”

“Breakfast.”

“A diner. There’s a place near here that I’ve heard is good.”

“Yeah, I know the place. Blue Plate something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to leave Kate to this. But Monday, I have orders.”

“No, son, you can’t go AWOL. Kate wouldn’t want you here anyway.”

Rick winced though he knew it was true; everything Kate had done had proclaimed loudly that she was only interested in the release, and even that, she’d only allowed it because he’d be leaving soon.

“Ah, sorry, that came out wrong, son. I meant-”

“No, you’re right. You’re right. She wouldn’t. But breakfast tomorrow and just - I know you can’t stop. I know. But if she had you otherwise? Couldn’t that be... I know it wouldn’t work here. Not coming here, but on neutral ground.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t do shit for her but I can try. Try this.”

“Son. I - I’ll do my best.”

“Set an alarm,” Rick answered. “You said you’d - someone for me too, right? Well, I gotta leave Monday morning, so tomorrow. Saturday brunch. Be good to have a conversation with you sober.”

Jim grunted a laugh and gave him a sideways look. “I don’t know how much of this I’m gonna remember. I fall asleep and the night’s hazy.”

“I’ll leave you a note,” Rick said. “I can-”

“All right, all right. You’re eager. Your story about your parents is all true, isn’t it? Fine, then. You need a drunken fool like me, then fine. I’ll set an alarm, meet you at nine tomorrow.”

Rick grinned, something hard pounding at his ribs.

Oh, that was his heart.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll let you sleep.”

He got up from the bed and found paper and a pen, scrawled a hasty message that he actually meant: Blue Plate, 9:00 am. I’ll bring Kate. You promised to show up for me.

He hoped - he really hoped - that Jim could keep his promise.

But he wouldn’t tell Kate. Just in case.


	13. Chapter 13

When he got home to her apartment, he moved quietly through the rooms, pulling off his coat and shoes, shedding his jeans again. He’d tugged a plaid shirt on over his t-shirt, and all the layers had started to make him sweat on the subway, so he was glad to have it gone.

He left everything where it fell, padded barefoot into her bedroom. Kate was curled on her side but her face was buried in the pillow he’d claimed for himself, her arm thrown across the mattress, making it impossible for him to slip back into bed without moving her.

He did it gently, trying not to disturb her sleep, but she startled awake, gasping as he loomed over her in bed.

“Rick,” she croaked. Her eyes blinked hard and fluttered, but he moved her back to her side of the bed, slid in after her. “Thought you were - gone.”

“I was. I’m back now,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss the sweet confusion of her knitted forehead. “I was fast.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, and her eyes slid shut only to flare open once more. “What time is it? I’m gonna be late-”

“No, no, Kate. Love, it’s only four in the morning. Saturday morning.”

She groaned and flopped back into her pillow, eyes closing. “Shit. Yeah. Saturday.”

“Sleep,” he murmured, drawing his arm around her.

Rick managed to get her to settled in against him, mostly by wrapping his body around hers and leaving her no other choice, but she seemed just tired enough to curl her arm around his and draw his hand to her chest. He remembered holding her like this, spooning, when she'd been so sick she couldn't take a breath without coughing, and the difference between only a handful of days ago and now was remarkable.

He kissed behind her ear and brushed the hair back from her neck, fingers combing roughly through the ends. She shrugged her shoulders to put him off and he backed away, giving her space.

"Where'd you go?" she said suddenly. "I mean, unless it's classified."

"Class-" Rick cut himself off with a laugh. "No, Kate. I told you. Your dad called."

She jerked away from him and scrambled up, on her hands and knees for an instant before sinking back on her haunches. "My dad. What are you - what do you mean, my dad?"

He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed his hand down his face, suddenly more tired than he'd expected to be. He hadn't been on top of the program lately, hadn't done his usual twelve mile run in the morning, hadn't been eating right at all. Ireland was going to kick his ass the first week back; he could already tell. Best not to let his father see him without endurance.

"Richard."

"No, sorry, falling asleep," he said quickly, opening his eyes. "He called and you weren't answering, so I did."

"What did he - what happened to him?" she said, her voice sounding thin.

"Nothing happened. I picked him up at the Old Haunt and took him home, Kate."

She sank down to the bed once more, her head buried in her pillow. "Oh, no."

"He was okay," he promised. "I got him talking to me; we walked. I made sure he wasn't too out of it. He'll sleep."

She rolled onto her back with a groan, hiding her eyes behind her hand. "He'll drink another bottle of scotch at home then," she muttered. "Shit. Richard. This is why - I'm sure he's gotten another bottle. I threw out the last three, but I know he bought another."

"Wait. What?" Rick sat up now, reaching out to grab Kate's hand and draw it down from her face. "He'll do what?"

"If he's sober enough to walk and talk, he's sober enough to drink himself to unconsciousness. At least tomorrow is Saturday, at least he doesn't have to go to work. Shit. Shit, I'll - I'll have to go see him tomorrow, Rick. I'm - I can't not check on him. Shit."

He felt sick, wondered if Jim would show up at the diner at all tomorrow. "We can - breakfast tomorrow," he said quickly. He hadn't planned on telling her that they were meeting her father there, but now he doubted it would happen at all. "We'll go out for breakfast and we can stop by."

She closed her eyes, quiet and subdued, but the hand he'd caught in his turned to wrap around his wrist like she was holding on to him.

He'd messed up. He'd thought he was getting her father home and sobering him up enough to understand the reality of things, but that was the whole point - Jim couldn't handle the reality of things. So of course he was pouring himself another drink just to sleep at night, just to quiet the regrets.

"There goes your plan of staying in bed all weekend," she sighed. "Of course."

His heart twisted for her; he could tell she was disappointed, that the prospect of some escape had been such a treat for her.

Rick rolled over to press his hips down into hers; she opened her eyes and he leaned in, kissed her thoroughly, tongue and teeth and heat until she moaned.

"So what if we have to crawl out of bed for breakfast?" he said quickly. "I messed up, Kate, but I will make it up to you. Anyway you want me."

A half-smile twitched in her lips and she drew her arms around his neck even as she lifted her knees to his hips. "Mm, that sounds appropriately penitent."

"Oh, I am," he rumbled, rocking his hips into hers so she could feel how much. "So very penitent."

\-----

She was laughing, her fingers gripping his hair. Rick grumbled into her bare stomach and she laughed again, her abs rippling under his mouth. She was writhing, one of her legs hooked over the back of his thigh, little gasps as he licked and nipped and scraped his ways across her belly.

When she was completely breathless with it, Rick lifted his head and grinned at her, crawling up on his elbows to lay over her again. He was warm with sweat and sex, and she was liquid gorgeous under him, still vibrating with her arousal.

“I thought you were going down on me,” she hummed back, her own smile peeking out.

“I thought I’d just fuck with you,” he winked.

She growled and gripped his hair, tried pushing him back down.

“So impatient,” he laughed, ducking his chin to let his scruff rasp across her breasts.

“Oh, that,” she whispered, her throat arching.

“That?” he murmured. He turned his head to nuzzle her breasts and she gasped, her nipples already so hard. “I’ve been wanting to feast on these. Just have my way with your breasts.”

“Whoa, fuck,” she moaned, her hips jerking under his body. He loved that reaction, how he could make her buck into him with just a new sensation of his mouth, the touch of his fingers where she wasn’t expecting it. She was just so responsive.

He licked the underside of her breast and sucked lightly at her skin; she made a cute little mewling noise that sounded so very desperate and then her fingers gripped his hair and held him against her.

“You could - could - oh fuck,” she groaned. “Just fuck me, Rick. I can’t stand it.”

He sucked at her breast and circled his tongue around her areola, teasing, blowing over the trail he’d made. Her skin rippled and she rocked her hips up against his ribs, her arms tight around him, straining for him.

“You want me to suck on your nipples?”

“I want - I want - want to have you,” she groaned. “Your cock.”

He grinned and nipped at her breast, rubbed his fingers over her hip bone and slipped between her legs. “Right here?”

“Fuck, fuck, I need - I really need it.”

“But I love to feel you,” he murmured. “The way your sex weeps for me.”

“Fuck,” she growled. “Would you just stop talking and fuck me?”

“Oh, no, love. Because it makes you so hot when I tell you what I’m doing to you.”

She moaned and writhed under him, her heel hitting his hamstring and digging tightly, her body striving for his.

“Yeah, see? You love this, Beckett. Being teased to the edge of pain.”

She was mewling again, her sex open and drenched for him, grasping for his fingers, so he lowered his head and sucked harder on her breast.

“Fuck,” she cried out. “Please, I need you. I need you, please, just let me have it. Let me have you-”

He growled and pushed his fingers inside her, stroking roughly, stroking hard, his forehead pressed to her collarbone and his breath panting out against her skin. He wanted to hold onto his control; he needed to make her wild with it first, make her say love again when she begged for him to let her come.

He slowed down, lifted his head to watch her face, watch the arousal crawl over her, the need building and cresting higher.

“Please,” she whimpered. Her fingers were tight in his hair and gripping at his ears, as if she could maybe control this.

Rick circled his fingers around and around her entrance, dipping into her arousal and scissoring his fingers just inside her, widening that tight ring of her cunt.

“Have you ever been stretched?” he murmured.

“What?” she gasped, her body vibrating under him now. “What are you - oh.”

He pushed three fingers inside her even as she questioned him, worked those three digits in and out, twisting side to side. She writhed and her mouth formed a surprised O like she had never felt quite like this before.

“Hey, love, look at me,” he murmured. “Look at me, Kate.”

Her eyes roved to his but she couldn’t hold it; she cried out and contracted around his fingers, but still he kept it slow, kept it from overtaking her. He dragged her back from the edge of her orgasm, kept her balanced on the fine line, and then he slid a fourth finger inside her.

“Oh!” she cried out. Her body was pure energy and strength under and around him, so damn strong.

He worked his fingers slowly, spreading them when he could, stroking the walls of her sex, curling, stretching her entrance.

“Oh my God,” she moaned. Her hips started to come up and up, meeting the slow glide of his fingers inside her. He had to hold her down, his free hand pressed against her belly, wondering if she could take his whole fist.

No, no. She’d ask for it, but no. He couldn’t - wouldn’t try it. Not yet. This was more than enough for now. He’d given her this, him, and she’d never forget him for it. Even if he was leaving tomorrow.

Rick lowered his mouth to her hip and sucked, wanting to mark her everywhere, scraping his teeth over the bone. She was whimpering and groaning, breathless, her hands clutching his head.

He worked his hand a little deeper and she cried out, shaking, trembling around him, and he could feel the contractions of her orgasm clamping down on his fingers.

He stretched her wider, fucking her with his hand, and the web of his thumb crushed against her clit with each stroke. Down and in, down and in, and she was out of control now, chanting insensate.

She screamed and climaxed with a violence that was breathtaking.

Rick didn’t let her calm down; he withdrew his hand and wrapped her wet arousal around his cock, priming himself hard and thick for her. And then he pushed open her thighs, her body still vibrating with her orgasm, and shoved his cock inside her.

She cried out and came again, her second chasing hard on the first, and he pumped madly into the tight, hot fist of her body, growling out his need into the sweat slicked beauty of her skin.

\-----

Her fingers stroked and combed through his hair as she caught her breath; he felt every hitch of her lungs and the still-rapid flutter of her heart under his cheek.

She started giggling and he snorted (but oh God, he loved that sound; he’d give his life to have her laugh like that every day) and he lifted his head to look at her. “What.”

“Your hair,” she laughed. “Oh, love, it’s sticking up all over the place.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s cute,” she hummed, ruffling his hair now and drawing her knees up around his ribs. She liked to do that, he’d figured out already; she was always pulling in her knees and he’d get a deeper angle and she’d fall apart in moments. She liked the heavy weight of him over her, and she liked being pressed open.

He liked being the one over her. “Your hair’s all crazy but you don’t hear me saying anything about it.”

“My hair?” she snorted. She was rubbing the inside of her thighs along his flanks, like she loved the friction, but she was still messing with his hair.

“Yeah, your hair,” he murmured. He loved the feel of her touching him. “It’s all wavy around your face.”

“Does that when it gets humid.”

“It’s like thirty degrees outside,” he said.

She laughed. “Um, yes, correct. But.”

“But?” he said, nestling his chin at the slope of her breast. He swallowed and he knew she could feel it against her nipple. Erotic as fuck like this, pretending to just have a conversation.

“But,” she went on, dragging it out. “Hm, think about that one, Rick. Humidity.”

“Oh,” he grinned. “You’re so sweaty?”

She grunted. “Yeah. Your fault.”

“No wonder I love it,” he hummed. “It’s your just-fucked hair.”

She giggled again, the sound floating off into a sigh, and he crawled back up her body and kissed her hard before lying down on his side.

“It’s too early, baby,” he said. He managed to wrap an around under her shoulders and draw her against him. “You think you can sleep?”

“Yeah,” she rasped. “You?”

“Might,” he allowed. Probably wouldn’t; he’d already had his four hours. But maybe.

“You should sleep when I sleep because, let me just warn you, Rick, when I wake up - I’m waking you.”

“Oh, is that a promise?”

“It’s a fucking good promise,” she grumbled. “I wanna do things to you in your sleep so that you wake up coming.”

“Fuck,” he grunted. “If you’re trying to get me to sleep right now , it ain’t happening. I’m buzzing again.”

“Want me to suck you off so you can sleep?”

He grunted and wrapped his arm tighter around her. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

“A cocky monster?” she laughed. “Oh, that’s so wrong.”

He didn’t quite get it - must be a joke with a pop culture reference; he’d missed a lot of those lately. But she was laughing again, and now her hand came down and teased along his shaft, her fingers cupping his balls.

“Baby, you don’t have to,” he groaned. Fuck, she felt so good.

“But I kind of adore that face you make,” she murmured, sliding closer and dragging her leg around his, tangling with him. Her fingers fondled him and made his breath catch, his abs tighten in expectation.

“Face?” he whined.

“Oh, there it is,” she laughed. “And with that spiky, sex-hair this is the best face I’ve seen.”

“Best. Best face,” he grunted.

She wrapped her hand around him and stroked and he lurched up into her grip, shaking with it. She’d already managed to make him lose the train of his thought and now she was whispering her praise into his ear as she laid over his side, stroking him.

“I adore this face,” she whispered. “Your eyebrows scrunch in and you shut your eyes so tight. When I rub my thumb over the head of your cock, you do this-”

He grunted and his hips bucked and she hummed, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Just like that,” she whispered. “I’m going to make you come, love, but maybe you want to be inside me for that?”

“I want. Want you. I just want you,” he groaned.

“You could come all over the sheet,” she murmured. “We’d just strip it off and pull the blankets up.”

“I could - I’ll do - do anything you want, baby,” he groaned. His eyes opened and he saw her hovering over him, felt her hand burning and beautiful and perfect and he hadn’t known it could be so good with just her hand. And the fucking erotic images she painted inside his head.

“Or I could shift on top of you. Rub against you until you came all over me.”

“Shit,” he gasped, blinking hard into the fucking-hot gorgeous view of her eyes intent on his. “Kate. Kate, I need you.”

“You’ll have me,” she hummed. “Would you rather slide inside me, Rick? I’ll keep perfectly still and we’ll see how long you last.”

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned.

“See? You love it too. What did you call it? Teasing on the edge of pain.”

“Fuck,” he grunted. Her fingers had never let up, still fondling and caressing him, not quite enough pressure, not enough strength in her grip to make him lose it.

“Or my mouth?”

“Let me - let me just... slide inside you,” he said finally, staring up at her. “Just hold me there.”

She grinned and rubbed the underside of his shaft, made his hips jerk, and then she was lifting up to straddle his thighs.

“Sit up, love,” she murmured. “Sit up with me.”

“Oh-okay,” he croaked, struggling to get his elbows under him. When his chest pressed flush to hers, his legs coming in to cross at his ankles, cradling her ass, she hooked her arms around his neck and lifted to her knees.

“Touch me, Rick. Make me wet for you.”

He moaned and opened his mouth over her breast in his face, immediately put his hand between her legs. She was wet, already wet, but he slicked his fingers around her folds and pushed that arousal around, slipping inside to prepare her for his intrusion.

She was panting now, hips working against his hand, and his cock ached so badly he could die.

“Now,” she whispered. “Now. I want you inside me.”

He moved his hand and she sank down, not giving him much time to grasp his cock and angle for her. She came over him slowly, some resistance as he pushed inside, and she rolled her hips to take him deeper.

Just as she’d promised, she didn’t move. They were both breathing hard, arms shaking, bodies slick with sweat, but she stayed absolutely still over him, the tight fist of her cunt gripping him so desperately that he had to grit his teeth.

“Feel good?” she gasped.

“So good,” he moaned back, burying his face against her neck. “Oh, fuck, Kate. I’ve never - this has never happened to me before.”

“You’re so big,” she murmured. A little gasping breath. “Oh, fuck, fuck, every time I think you can’t get any thicker, it’s like you get a little bit harder for me, a little more massive inside me.”

He groaned and worked hard to keep from thrusting, holding it back, holding tightly to a control he wasn’t sure he had.

Her inside muscles contracted around him, a flutter, and she went rigid, her arms tightening around his neck.

“Are you - are you coming?” he growled.

“Almost,” she moaned. “Oh, please. Please. Almost there. Fuck, you’re so hard. It makes it so intense.”

“All for you, love. No one else has ever done this to me.”

She groaned and her hips twitched, the only break in her control, but the jerky movement was like a fucking explosion in his guts. He roared out a climax, locked around her, locked inside her, his orgasm ripping through him like nothing ever had before.

She finally gave it up and rocked a furious rhythm against him, her legs gripping his waist and her cunt contracting around him until she was done.

He kept his arms around her, felt himself shaking, but he couldn’t move away to save his life.

She gave a shuddering breath and leaned towards the mattress, dragging him down with her. “Can sleep now,” she murmured, her lashes already closing.

He was still buried inside her, and even though he knew sleep would make him slip out, he was already following her down, wiped out.

\-----

Kate Beckett woke with attitude.

He was amused because he’d felt the tension creep into her body as she became aware, moving from sleep-slack to morning-ready, and before her eyes even opened, she had a wicked smile.

And then her eyes did open, and she glared at him.

“You bastard,” she rasped. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“What?” he laughed.

She dragged her hand up his chest and viciously twisted his nipple, making him yelp even as he laughed harder, and she propped herself up on top of him. “You’re so mean,” she muttered.

“Me?”

“I was so looking forward to doing naught things to you in your sleep. And you’re already awake. You’re always awake. It’s not fair - doubly not fair because I’ve been sick and sleeping all the time.”

“Shit, you’re chatty this morning,” he chuckled, rubbing his palm over his mangled nipple. “And brutal too. Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt you,” she scoffed. “Nothing hurts you.” And then she got quiet and tilted her head so that her cheek touched his chest. “Well.”

Well? Oh, well nothing physical she meant.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said then. And while a sentence like that coming out of anyone else’s mouth would have some kind of shameful or tender thread underpinning it, this didn’t. Beckett, when she said she hadn’t meant to hurt him, meant only and just that.

It wasn’t on purpose; let’s move on.

He cupped the back of her head and lifted his lips to hers. “If you did, I’m sure I deserved it.” He stroked his thumb along her cheek and tried to give her a way back to that smile. “But I can pretend to be asleep and you can most definitely do naughty things to me.”

“It’s no good,” she sighed dramatically.

“Oh, but it’s so good,” he whined. “I can be good. I won’t move.”

“But I’ll know you’re awake. I won’t be able to do what I want.”

“What? No. You can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

She sighed again, dropped her cheek back to his chest, still draped over his side and practically on top of him. “Nope. Too late.”

He growled and pulled her shoulders into him. “No, come on. It’s not my fault that you’re so fucking sexy that all I want to do is watch you, not waste a moment on something as banal as sleep.”

“Too. Late.”

“I can fall back to sleep,” he said eagerly. “Come on. Give me a chance. It’ll take like five minutes. I’m used to sleeping in the rough.”

“In the rough?” she murmured, her chin digging into his sternum as she studied his face.

“You know - out in the field, under enemy mortars going off overhead, inside a closet.”

She laughed. “Inside a closet?”

“Yeah, you know. Punishment. All I have to do is lie here a few minutes and slow my heart rate and I’m gone. And then you can do all you like to me. Please?”

“Punishment?” she said, stirring now, her arm moving up his body to curl her hand at his shoulder. She stroked her fingers at the base of his neck, up into his hair. “When were you punished?”

He shrugged it off. “Kid, you know. Whatever. Come on. I want naughty things done to me in my sleep.”

She gave him a strange look, but she sighed and slid off of him, onto her side so that she could watch him. “Okay. Sleep then. I’ll know if you’re faking.”

“I won’t fake it,” he said seriously. “I’d never fake it with you, Beckett.”

She laughed, reaching out to lay her hand on his chest, scratching at his skin. “Better not. I’d be seriously offended. Now, go back to sleep.”

He grinned like an idiot and wriggled deeper into the covers. “I don’t know, now I’m so excited.”

“You punk. Close your eyes. Calm down.”

“Tell me a bedtime story,” he said, grinning up at her.

“Close your eyes.”

“Tell me a story,” he whined, but he obediently closed his eyes. “Story, Beckett.”

“Won’t that keep you awake?”

“Not with that sexy, sick voice you got going on. Put me right out.”

“You saying I’m boring?”

His eyes popped open but she was grinning. “You-”

“I’m kidding,” she laughed, shoving on his shoulder. “Eyes closed. Eyes closed.”

He did, and his skin rippled the instant before he felt her lips drag over his neck. “Once upon a time...”

Oh, fuck. He might not fall asleep at all.

\-----

She curled her hand around him.

He already loved this story. She was hovering just away from him, on her knees in the bed he thought, and her voice had insinuated itself into his chest and curled around his insides.

“This knight had a magical sword.”

Rick snorted, unable to keep it back, and suddenly her hand had closed around his magical sword, tightly. He gasped, and she hummed right at his ear.

“You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I’m asleep,” he whispered, but his voice was choked by the way she stroked his cock. Gentle touches, feeling him up, measuring his girth.

“The knight was a champion of his kingdom and regularly went up against the worst of dragons - mean, evil fire-breathers that were trying to ravage the countryside.”

He kept his eyes resolutely shut, enchanted by the story but also by the curl of her fingers around his cock. He was already hard.

“One day, the knight found himself in a brutal fight with a dark-helmeted villain who’d been stealing from the villagers - apples, a whole mincemeat pie, a horse-”

“What’s mincemeat?”

“Shhh,” she warned him.

Her fingers feathered along his shaft to the head, circled around and around making his cock dip with her touch. He felt her body closer now, the heat of her, and she began stroking in earnest, tightening him up with arousal.

Her fingers squeezed, thumb rubbing over him so that his cock pulsed hard in her hand. “He wielded his sword-”

She paused but no, no, he wasn’t laughing this time. Too good - it was too fucking good, her hand on him like this.

“He wielded his sword like no other, brought the thief to his knees, but when the knight pulled off his enemy’s helmet, he found a woman instead.”

“That’s you,” he groaned.

She squeezed his cock in warning and Rick shut his mouth tightly; she was close - she had to be practically kneeling over him, working him both hands, and he felt the mattress shifting under her weight.

“When the knight discovered it was a woman - a fucking hot woman-”

Rick grinned in appreciation and she skimmed her fingers down his erection to swirl around his balls before gripping him by the base.

“He sheathed his sword.”

Without warning, his cock was being enclosed by hot wet walls - he was fully inside her. Rick cursed and his eyes flared open, staring at the woman who was sinking down over him.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. She reached out and closed his eyelids and he moaned.

She thrust quickly and seated him deeper, and he couldn’t help wrapping his hands around her waist, clutching hard as he gritted his teeth.

“The moment he put his sword up,” she whispered.

He groaned, felt her hot and wet around him, his cock clearly and most definitely up.

“The woman-thief,” she dragged out, rocking her hips down on him so that his body started to shake with it, already close, so close- “the thief stole his family jewels.”

Her inside muscles clenched hard and he shouted, spilling inside her even, his orgasm dirty and hot and his hips bumping up hard.

“Mmm,” she hummed, rocking into him still, slow and deadly, her body laying out over his and her breasts brushing him. “Did she get away with it?”

“Kate,” he croaked. His eyes slowly opened and she framed his face with her hands, leaned in to kiss him. Dark and rich and wet and desperate.

“Help me out here,” she whispered against his mouth.

He dragged his hands up her back and down again, found her ass and then her wet sex, stroked his fingers around his own cock. She shivered and drew her arms in, propped herself up on his chest to get a better angle.

Her hips pumped against him, her cunt sucking greedily at his cock, but he wanted to give her more than that, more than just a weak effort all on her own steam.

He pressed his hand down on her back to halt her movement, shook his head against her cheek. “Try this,” he rasped. “Spread your legs a little wider.”

She whined something that vibrated between them but she fell back down against his chest and spread her knees. He’d only come once so he knew his cock would thicken for her a little more, and he’d been wanting to try this.

She felt desperate enough to allow him.

Rick caressed her ass with both hands, around and around, playing with her as she’d played with his cock. He skimmed his fingers along her anus, dragged her arousal back and forth along her crack until she was whimpering, shuddering, making these sexy little thrusts of her hips down over him.

His cock was filling out now, a little more, not erect but not flaccid either, a thickening that she could grip with her inside muscles. When he knew she was paying more attention to his growing cock than to anything else, Rick parted her ass and pressed two fingers to her anus.

She gasped, hips jerking, and it gave him the forward momentum to push past her resistance.

Kate moaned over his chest, her mouth open and panting at his nipple, the sensation of her burning down to his guts. He worked his fingers, stretching her ass for him, and her body made these jerking, fluttering movements around his cock.

She was panting now, squirming on top of him, but she was pushing back into his hand as much as anything. He pressed deeper and felt his own cock between that thin wall of her body. She cried out, stiffening, so he took that as his cue to pump in and out of her in shallow strokes.

“Oh, fuck,” she cried, her forehead pressed hard into his sternum as she rode both his cock and his hand. She took him deeper, and then she lifted up into his fingers at her ass, a back and forth that drew hot little moans from her mouth.

“You got it,” he murmured against her temple. “How good it feels, to fill you up like this. Just wait until I can get my cock inside you, wait until you can take me here.”

“Oh, oh, oh, please,” she groaned.

He pumped his hand in and out, being sure to stretch and rub against her muscle, feeling the shiver and catch of her abs against his.

“We’ll work up to it, baby, but this is a good first step, two fingers is a lot, isn’t it? How tight you must feel, how ripped open every time I push harder into your ass.”

She shouted and came violently around him, entirely without restraint, her body demanding everything from his and drawing it out to the very end.

He pulled his fingers out of her quickly so that she moaned, falling over his chest, and he swiped his hand off on her sheets and carefully wrapped her in his arms. She was steaming with sweat, her breath hot and fast against his chest, and it felt like she was hanging on to him for dear life.

He cupped the side of her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead, inordinately proud of that one.

And of course, his cock was hard as a rock inside her now.

\-----

She couldn’t seem to catch her breath; her body trembled and he tightened his arm around her, squeezed the back of her neck. The muscles in her thighs twitched and fluttered and her heart was pounding.

He started to worry about her when it went on, but she turned her head into him and kissed his chest, scraping her teeth over his ribs like she wanted to start something. Her hips thrust against his so that his cock sank deeper and she gasped, trembling again, shivering with it.

She was still raw and she was trying to fucking start something.

Her fingers skated up his sides and her lips grazed his nipple; he grunted and his hips thrust into her in response. She groaned, her heart picking up again and making them both pound with it, but she was shaking. Her whole body quivered and it just wasn’t okay to fuck her when she was barely able to hold on.

“Wait,” he murmured. “Wait a second, Kate.”

She moaned and planted her hands on his chest, tried to rise up over him, but her fucking arms gave out - her arms gave out. No. They weren’t doing this.

Rick growled and rolled them, settled hard over her body. She mewled, her throat arching, her breaths shaky and fast. She pressed her hand over her eyes and gulped down every breath, but she was still trying to writhe under him.

“Fucking stay down, Beckett.” He thrust his hips against hers and pinned her there, his chest crushing her breasts. She’d never done that before - he knew she’d never done it - and what the hell was she trying to prove?

Her hips bucked into his and he pressed harder to keep her still, but she was furiously trying to work him off. Tightening around him, rhythmic pulses. Damn it. It always had to be even with her; it couldn’t ever be something she just received.

But if he yelled at her and forced her to chill out, she’d never take it lying down. She’d make even that into a competition and holy shit, if they were going to do this all weekend, she couldn’t be breaking herself against him.

So he pretended like she was going to get exactly what she thought she wanted.

“Stay like this, just like this, baby. Let me do this to you,” he growled at her.

She rocked her hips up, her fingers gripping his ass, trying to get closer to him, but he pushed down into her.

“I got this,” he murmured against her neck. “I got you. Stay, love, just stay right here.”

He slid his arm under her back, circled her neck with his fingers. She gasped and shuddered under him and he dropped his mouth to hers and stroked roughly inside. She whined into his kiss, and even though she tried to hook her arm around his neck, she couldn’t seem to get it together.

He gripped her nape with one hand and skimmed his other hand down her side, ignoring her breasts just to keep her steady, squeezed her thigh. She groaned and sucked on his tongue, a wild thing under him, but he pressed himself harder into her, stroked her flank, rubbing his palm over her heated skin.

The friction of his hand against her made her shudder, and he took the kiss deeper, less rough, transitioned her into something a little more forgiving.

She had stopped bucking up into him, but her franticness didn’t seem to abate. He broke the kiss, thinking it was only making it worse, and he dropped his mouth to her neck, bit at her throat before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She groaned and he felt her trying to lift her knee up against him, but she could barely move.

“Please, please, please,” she begged, but her whole body was trembling like she didn’t know what she wanted.

He calmed his touch, his grip tight on her neck but his other hand firm and smooth over her thigh. She started to breathe again, gulping down air and then catching a better rhythm, and he could feel her heart give a few pulsing beats before settling into only an occasional bump.

“Rick,” she moaned.

“I got you. I got you, love. Just like this.”

“You’re so hard,” she whispered, like she couldn’t bear it.

Fuck, if he thought she’d allow it, he’d pull out of her entirely. She didn’t need him taking any more from her. She’d been sick all week, worked to the bone as a police officer, fucking shot even if she called it a graze. And yet, her sex still held a hot and tight grip around him.

He felt her muscles shiver through little contractions, aftershocks that just wouldn’t stop. He shifted to one side and petted her down, massaging her ass and her thigh, touching his mouth to the slope of her breast.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“You’re okay,” he rumbled. “You’re okay, baby. I got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

She mewled something that caught like a hook in his guts, and he reached between them to stroke softly at her belly, up under her breasts, before laying his palm over her heart and keeping her still.

Her eyes opened and blinked slowly at him, a shiver running through her again, and he leaned in and softly touched his mouth to hers.

“Please,” she breathed out.

“I got you,” he murmured. “Breathe, baby. I can make it good for you.”

Her lashes fluttered and her arm came up between them, her fingers curling at his neck. She turned her mouth into him and he felt her lips going slack, her body heated and shaky and now shutting down on her.

He stroked his fingers at her collarbone and laid over her, tight and close, nuzzling his nose against her temple, down to her cheek. She let out a long breath and her body seemed to melt under him, finally giving it up.

She was down. He shifted just enough to see her face and she stirred, a whimper in her chest, but when her eyes opened, she didn’t seem to see him. He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth and she sighed.

“You...”

Whatever she was going to say was lost to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Rick couldn’t be sure she’d stay asleep if he moved. Every time he thought to shift his weight off of her, she stirred and seemed to follow him, like she needed his body to hold her down.

He was stuck. Still mostly erect inside her.

And getting harder.

Richard groaned softly and laid his forehead against her neck, taking deep breaths to keep himself steady now. His elbow was pressed into the mattress and he shifted subtly to the side only to have her whimper and move after him.

He kept still, heart pounding, and he had to - figure this out. He couldn’t stay poised on top of her for... how long would she be out of it? It was only about six in the morning, and she’d been sick for a week, so this could be a while.

Fuck. His cock was so hard.

He gritted his teeth and tucked his arm up under her shoulder, tried to shift them both. She stirred when he tried to roll, and he had to stop, had to stop, and not for her. For him. For him because when he moved, her cunt fluttered around him.

Fuck. Fuck, he was not coming inside her while she was asleep.

Shit. Maybe he was. Maybe he should just rock his hips a little and let it go and then-

No. No, he could be - better than that. He was a fucking former Army Ranger and current CIA covert operative. If he couldn’t stay still and keep his fucking cock under control, what was he worth?

He ached. Fuck, he ached. She was so hot around him, her cunt gripping him like a vise, her body strong and fluid and gorgeous. Fuck, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen, and she let him do things to her, let him try whatever he wanted. She was up for anything and she just fucking went at it, tried it back, tried it on him.

Rick took a slow breath in and worked hard not to just root into her, his cock throbbing more the longer he held still. He dropped his head to her collarbone, his back tense as he laid over her, his thighs falling on either side of hers.

He wanted her so badly. All the time. It didn’t stop, and anyone else wouldn’t take it, would have shoved him out on his ass.

No, no if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t want them like this, this would never happen. He wanted her; he wanted Kate Beckett and no one else would ever compare. He was fucking hard inside her and he couldn’t get a handle on how much he ached for her.

He had to get this under control. What was he going to do - stay like this until she woke up?

No, he wouldn’t be a jackass; he’d slide out of her and let her fucking rest for once. She had to be sore.

Richard got a hand to the mattress and pushed up, trying to put his weight on his knee.

She moaned and shifted; his breath caught as her knee drew up at his hip.

“Fuck,” she slurred. Her breath was hot against his temple and her fingers flexed at his bicep, curling.

He lifted his head and glanced down at her; her lashes parted and her eyes met his.

It took her a moment, like coming from a place far away, and he ducked his head to kiss her softly, bringing her back to him.

Her breath caught, eyes so dark on his. “You’re inside me,” she whispered. “Oh my God, I can feel you.”

He groaned.

Her arm came around his neck and she shifted her hips, moaning quietly in the morning stillness. He tried not to completely come apart but her fingers were scraping through the hair on his neck and her body arched into him.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. “You feel so good. I came so hard, Rick.”

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “You’re so responsive to me.”

She whined and her knee rubbed against his ribs, her inside thigh damp with sweat at his side. She opened her legs a little wider and rolled her hips into him, making him curse.

“Go slow,” she murmured. “Go real slow, and make it last.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

She rolled up into him again and he could barely think straight, her body so strong and intense under him. His hand was still at her nape, gripping her, and she opened her mouth at his jaw, licked his skin.

It was too much. He took her hip and guided her close, thrust into her sleep-warm and willing body. She was making this breathless noise, encouragement and praise, her voice winding around his guts and twisting him up inside.

He stroked into her, rocking and touching deep, his mouth moving along her cheek and jaw, his existence narrowed down his movement inside her. She gripped him and gripped him in this clutching, exotic pull that had his cock throbbing for her, his abs sheened with sweat and touching her skin with every push inside. She groaned and arched under him, her orgasm erupting through her body with a flush of pink and the tremors he'd come to associate with her best climaxes, and she clung to him throughout, gasping for breath.

"Oh, you're still - still here," she said, her voice holding such wonder that it made his toes curl and his cock pulse. "Come on love, let go, let go." Her words were soft and chanted into his ear, her finger stroking in his hair in time to the movement of his hips. She suddenly lifted her legs up higher around him, a grunting note of pleased surprise, and he found himself driving deeper, harder, so in tune with her every need.

He slid an arm out from under her and hooked it around the back of her knee, pressed her open to him. She cried out and bucked, one foot in the mattress for leverage, and he kept the same slow, forceful strokes, kept his body rigidly in check to take her higher, deeper.

She was moaning now, shaking with it, her body crying out for him in that primal way, and he just kept giving it to her, over and over, his eyes fixed on how her joy bloomed and spread through her like ink in water, so entranced by how she was completely unmade, completely his, so very much his.

"Please," she whispered, her lashes parting and framing such gorgeous, needy depths. "Please come for me."

She could go off any second; he knew it, he could feel it, how on the edge she was. "You."

"Please just, please, love, please come. I'll be right there, right with you. I need you to come for me."

He stroked deep, burying himself high and tight and fierce, and she cried out, shaking with it, gripping him everywhere, and that did it. He shattered to pieces inside her, calling her name as it cascaded like broken rain over him, stinging and burning and bleeding him dry.

When he collapsed over her, she was still coming. Intense and wild, she bucked up into his body with a little scream ripped from between her clenched teeth. He took it, stealing her breath with a kiss that sucked everything from her that she would give. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her body around his, still pulsing around his cock.

They fell back against the mattress as one and he couldn't close his eyes for staring at her. She grinned with her own eyes still closed, and she cleared her throat with a hum.

"Best. Ever," she murmured.

Since her smile was still a brilliant and blind benediction, he took that too. Soft, reverent kisses against her lips, her cheeks, the tease of hair that brushed her temple.

He was already in love with her. It was too late. It was far too late.

\-----

He petted her neck with two fingers and she laughed, eyes opening, and finally knocked his hand away. Rick curled his arm around her shoulders and drew her against him in bed, relishing the hour they had before the day began, this moment out of time.

She was muzzy with orgasms and sleep and warmth, and she kept smiling. All these smiles for him, the brown of her eyes warm and liquid, her lips pale pink against her teeth. She wasn’t bothering to hold it back, to disguise it as anything else, because she’d just come rather spectacularly all in a row, and it was okay. It was just fine to be drowsy and content with sex.

Only he knew what it really was, the only thing it could be. They’d made love. She’d never agree, never think of it like that, but it had to be love. The intensity was one thing, but that last time, going slow and deep and both of them caught up in each other - that had never happened before. It was never like that.

Because this was different.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for how this felt, what it did to him, what he would do for more of her. Whatever relationship he and his father had chiseled out over the years had never given him even an inkling of actual love. And for it to hit him now, to knock him down and beat him up-

He felt betrayed. Stupid, but it hurt. Where was he supposed to have picked up the skills and life lessons and ability to deal with something like this? It was an ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe, this love, and he didn’t know how life was supposed carry on now that it had happened.

No wonder Romeo and Juliet had killed themselves. This sucked.

Kate Beckett loved him too, he thought maybe she did somewhere in all this mess, but fucking good luck ever finding it. And fucking good luck him ever being good enough to even deserve it back from her in the first place. He was obviously hampered in some way, made handicap by his upbringing, and he was ninety percent sure he was going to fuck this up many times before it was over.

Over. Already a damn depressing thought. He wasn’t a quitter. He’d been trained to complete the mission. But missions had an end goal and he didn’t know what the point of love was supposed to be. Where was the end goal, what was his objective?

It rushed over him in a wave of panic that he had no fucking clue how to love a person and who the hell was supposed to have briefed him on something so vitally important?

Fuck. Fuck, he was going to hurt her.

He was going to break her heart and he didn’t even know how to stop it.

Holy shit, someone save him. Save her.

“I need a shower,” she murmured then. Her eyes opened again to him and her smile slipped out, lovely and a little shy, like an entirely different person. Break his entire fucking heart. “You coming? Pun completely intended.”

He laughed, heard the hysterical relief in it and couldn’t stop it either. She gave him a sideways look as she slid out of bed, but she pulled the bedcovers down and left him exposed to the morning sun.

“Mm, you have a gorgeous body. And impressive rebound. Let’s take this party into the shower, Rick.”

She trailed a fingertip down his burgeoning erection and left him blindsided in bed by his love.

He might not comprehend his end goal, but he knew the mission target for today: get Beckett to breakfast and be there when she confronted her father - whether that was at the diner or at the man’s apartment, he had no idea.

And to do that, he had to put her in a good mood.

\-----

She was some kind of porn star, that’s what she was.

She slicked her soapy hands around his cock and moaned like the feel of him did it for her, and fuck, fuck, it probably really did. She was always soaking wet when he came for her, and even with the water sluicing over their bodies, he could feel the slippery arousal between her legs.

She moaned again and leaned into his chest and he seriously fucking hated her shower. It was cramped and small and no walls to press her against. He hiked her leg around his hip and worked his fingers inside her, made a channel for his cock. She writhed against him, skin catching his with the friction of water.

Her teeth nipped his jaw and pinched his earlobe, a sharp spiral of pain in relief to the burning grip of her hand around his erection. She was trying to get at his balls, but she really couldn’t, couldn’t, no, because he would spray his load down the fucking drain and he wanted to push inside her first.

“Let me fuck you,” he grumbled at her, his voice barely heard over the shower. She ignored him, kept her hands on him, her leg wrapped around his waist as she rocked one out against his hip bone. “Fuck, Beckett, let me at least make you come with my cock inside you.”

“I’m good,” she breathily, her eyes closing as she reached for it. Fuck, she was just doing it all without him, her fingers playing with his soapy penis like he was a damn life-sized toy.

“Beckett,” he growled. But there was something fascinating and arresting about being the thing she got off against, being the one to watch. Like the best spies, he was a voyeur at heart, and he adored the observation of her pleasure, how it built and crested and washed over her.

She cried out and shuddered against him, fingers reflexively squeezing the base of his cock, and he obliged her by wrapping an arm around her to hold her up.

He had a classification system for her orgasms now and this one was what he termed satisfactory. She had a moment of tension and flutter and then the orgasm had burst over her and was gone. A crisis. Still good enough, but he figured they were the kind of orgasms she could give herself.

Her arm wrapped tighter around his neck and she dragged her body up his torso to press her mouth to his ear. “Now that that’s out of the way. I get to have my way with you.”

“Out of the way?” he grunted. “How appealing, Beckett.”

“I love how you use my last name when you want to order me around for sex. You think you’re my commanding officer?”

“I’m not that stupid,” he laughed. “You’d never follow my orders.”

“Sometimes, I do,” she hummed. And fuck, sometimes she did. Those were the orgasms that ripped through her like a land mine, unseen before they got there, blowing up before they knew it was coming. Shredded out his guts with how violently it took her. When he forced her down, when he laid over her, when he told her to do what he wanted. Fuck, yes. Sometimes she did.

She was tracing her fingers along his hips and now she bit at his chin, tugged as if she wanted something from him.

“What?” he rumbled, but the sound of the shower erased his question.

And then a nasty grin and she was on her knees in a second, before he could even figure out she was heading down, and her mouth went straight for his cock.

She swallowed him, throat tight and wet and her mouth fucking hot (but cooler than the shower, oh fuck) and he stumbled in the bathtub so that he thought - for one intense, horrifying moment - that he was going to bring the whole shower curtain down around them.

Her mouth worked around his cock, sucking and stroking. That cool wet relief of her tongue, strong and singular, a feeling like nothing else. The humidity of the shower, the heat that built inside him, but the strange erotic sensation of her comparatively cool mouth around him.

She gripped his ass and jerked him forward, and he stumbled, clutched at her head. Oh, fuck, he was getting addicted to the fit of himself (no, he didn’t quite fit) inside her mouth.

He gave himself over to it, using her mouth like she’d used his hip to grind out her climax. With her urging him on, gripping his ass so tightly, he didn’t even feel badly about it. She was moaning around him and when he could look past the fucking hot view of her mouth around him, he saw her fingers plunged between her spread legs, her hand working hard and furious in conjunction with her mouth.

He lost it. He fucked her, not even bothering to hold it back, showing her exactly what he was capable of, exactly what she’d fucking done to him.

She moaned and the vibrations traveled through his cock and deep into hist guts, made him wretched with how good it was, how dark and intense. She swallowed, her throat working against him, and suddenly he was roaring out his orgasm, down her throat, fucking her until her teeth started to scrape.

He dragged her off him in one last fit of strength, and then he sank hard to his knees. She had a hand pressed to her lips and the sight of her before him dropped him back on his ass. The shower pummeled his body as he sprawled in the bottom of the tub, reeling.

Kate crawled over his body and found his lips for a kiss, and for one bewildering, hot second, he didn’t know what she was doing.

And then he tasted himself on his tongue and her tongue under it, stroking and curling, and she was pushing the come of him around his mouth even as she straddled his lap and rubbed.

He was getting hard again. Already. Fuck, she made him hard all the time.

\-----

“Fuck,” she gasped.

He gripped her harder, buried so deep his balls ached, but she tightened her knees and banged an elbow into the porcelain, twisting her body strangely.

“What are you-”

“Fuck, it’s freezing,” she moaned.

Oh, oh, the water. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and struggled to get his feet under him. She shivered hard, and he stood up in one move from the bottom of the tub, feeling much more prideful than he had any right to be.

But she groaned and he realized goose bumps had raced across her skin, that the shower hitting her back. Rick cursed himself and turned them around, shielding her from the spray.

She blinked water out of her eyes and stared at him, her legs dropping from around his waist. His cock slipped out of her as she stumbled back, and he went after her for more.

“You’re not cold?” she rasped. She sounded like a woman distracted from her orgasm, and he hoped to get her back there soon enough. “Standing in the spray-”

“Not cold,” he promised, reaching out to take her by the hips. She came, skidding in the water against the porcelain, and he crowded into her. “Where were we?”

He cursed when she gripped him, her fingers like ice, and his cock pounded in response, as if to make up the difference. She growled something and widened her stance, giving him just enough room to shove inside her again.

She gasped.

He had to close his eyes.

She was so tight like this. Her thighs brushed his, her hips bumping against his groin on every thrust. He pressed his palm to the small of her back to guide her rhythm, and when she was slick enough, he started to pound into her.

Kate moaned and gripped the back of his neck, her body pulled in close and tight to his, her breath coming out in short, hard pants. She rubbed her thumb over his nipple and caused his hips to jerk; her noises made his cock all the harder for it.

“Faster,” she gasped. “I’m - it’s freezing in here.”

He thrust deeper, going at her, gripping her hard at her neck and hip to drag her body over his. She kept drawing her knee up to his waist for that delicious, intense angle and then dropping it again when the water got to be too much.

Had to make this short and sweet then.

Rick squeezed her hip and pushed his thumb inward, seeking out her sex. When he hit the slick glide of his own cock, he followed his thrust into her cunt, crushing her clit against him.

She gasped and came apart, a spectacular shattering, her core contracting around his cock and dragging his own orgasm out of him.

Before she could move, he kicked the water off with his foot and pulled them both out of the shower, holding her against him as she shivered.

“Fuck,” she croaked into his neck.

“Yes, baby, and you do it so well.”

Her laughter was breathless still.

\-----

“Your lips are blue,” he said, startled by how cold she was.

Her teeth chattered even as she laughed, her fingers closing around his bicep as she reached past him for a towel. “The shower was ice cold. For a good long time.”

“I don’t... understand why your lips are blue.” He caught the towel before it could fall from her fingers - were her fingers numb with it too? Rick hurriedly wrapped the towel around her and briskly rubbed her shoulders. “Are you cold? I kept the water off of you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m cold. I was standing in an inch of freezing water and the air was like breathing ice.” She shrugged her shoulders to duck out of his embrace and he watched her adjust the towel around her and tuck it under her breasts.

“But you came,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but surely she hadn’t faked it.

She laughed again and cast him a look over her shoulder. “Yeah, baby, I came. Doesn’t magically make it warmer.”

“Makes me warm,” he muttered.

“Richard, you are like a fucking space heater. You’re always warm.”

He put his hands on his hips and watched her pull deodorant from behind her mirrored medicine cabinet. She applied without looking at him and put it away again, dropped the towel to the floor.

Fuck, she was gorgeous. And young. And he wanted her more now than he had before.

Goose bumps. Nipples tight. Toes curled on the tile.

“You’re still cold,” he said then, stupidly. Goose bumps had taken up permanent residence across her arms and legs; her fingers were blue as well. She had pulled out a bottle of lotion and flipped open the top, glancing at him in the mirror.

“I’m fine. Chills. Still kinda steamed up in here so it’ll pass.”

If he’d known the fucking shower would make her so freezing, he’d never have kept going. Of course, she’d never have told him it was that bad, would she?

Time to fix this.

“I can warm you up.” He reached past her and took the lotion out of her hands; she half-turned away in protest, but he elbowed her off of him. “Let me.”

He squeezed a good amount of her lotion onto his palm and dropped the bottle in the sink, rubbed his hands together. Briskly.

“What do you think you’re gonna do here, Richard?”

“Lube you up,” he grinned, wriggling his eyebrows at her.

She snorted, like she was amused despite herself. “Oh, really?”

“Turn around so you can watch in the mirror,” he husked. He let the arousal drown out his eyes, and she caught a breath and finally turned, obeying.

The lotion was rich and thick between his fingers, some kind of fancy, sweet-smelling body cream. He stepped in at her back and crowded her to the sink until their skin barely touched; he felt her shiver, felt the ripple of it along her skin.

“This smells like you,” he murmured, shifting his arms around her, hands ready to touch.

“Or I smell like it,” she hummed, a note of amusement in her voice.

“Yeah,” he rumbled. “Like this. Honey and almonds and some kind of flower. I don’t know.”

“No,” she laughed. “It’s cherry blossom.”

“Yeah, that.” He didn’t know the first thing about women’s body lotion, but he could believe it, cherry blossoms.

He cupped her breasts with his creamed hands, dragged his palms down her abs to the tops of her thighs. She hummed and swayed back into him; he stroked upwards and found her breasts again, squeezed.

“Ah, that’s good.” She rocked back against him, her body one slow undulation. Slowly warming up.

He massaged the lotion into her breasts, lowered his mouth to touch his lips to the top of her shoulder. She lifted a hand and her fingers curled in his hair, her hum beautiful and rich in the close heat of the bathroom. She moved like she didn’t know she was moving, an easy rhythm of hips and chest.

He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and sucked lightly on her shoulder, rocking his hips in time with hers. His cock was nestled at her ass and every slow movement made him a little harder, a little more ready for her. But this wasn’t about him.

He smoothed one lotion-thick hand down her abs, pressed against her groin to move her back against him. Kate’s arm at his neck tightened, fingers gripping his hair, and he turned his mouth to suck at her bicep, lick the hard arch of muscle.

She groaned and he slipped his fingers between her legs, caught her when her body shuddered and sought his hand. He had to slide his knee between hers, giving her the support she needed to really ride his fingers, and he pushed up inside her, curling in her sex.

Kate clung to the edge of the sink with one hand and with the other she gripped the back of his neck. She cried out and bore down on his fingers inside her, and he crowded closer to keep her upright.

“Oh, God,” she gasped.

Rick massaged her breast, squeezing down towards her nipple, deep and hard, and he used his other hand between her legs to match the rhythm. Intense. Purposeful. Heat her up.

Her body shimmied when he touched her clit, like she hadn’t just come in the shower a few times, like they hadn’t spent the morning and the whole night trading orgasms. She was so damn responsive that sometimes he forgot that he was pushing too hard, for too much; he forgot that constant sex meant she needed time to recover.

Kate groaned, head bowing forward. “That feels... so damn good.” She shuddered. “Harder.”

He rubbed around her clit, let the burn ratchet tighter between her legs. Her body rocked in short, shallow thrusts. It wasn’t eager, it was just good and slow and necessary, like it was her right, like she had it coming. She wanted it, she would take it.

One more, one more orgasm to make her feel good and buzzed all morning, one more orgasm to give her the ease she needed to face breakfast at nine o’clock.

“Rick!”

She rode his hand in a long and drawn-out orgasm, grinding down hard over his fingers, her body entrusted to his, given over, completely abandoned to his care.

He’d do better. He swore he’d do better for her.

\-----

Richard wondered if he'd have to hook his arm in hers and drag her down the street. She wasn't exactly dragging her feet, but she wasn't purposeful either. Beckett kept hanging back, taking extra time at a crosswalk, pausing when the foot traffic thickened. Saturday morning in New York was filled with people, and Beckett was letting them slow her down.

"Don't think about it," he said blithely. "We're just having breakfast."

"It's not just anything," she sighed. A five orgasm morning and not even that had managed to keep her buoyant. And she had given him such beautiful smiles while they dressed, always touching him, touching and touching, like she couldn't stand to be separated from his cock. “It’s another hour that he’s up there passed out.”

“You said you didn’t want to-”

“I know,” she grumbled. “I don’t want him to know. If he’s not passed out, I don’t-”

“Then let’s eat, Kate.” He reached up and gripped the back of her neck and brought her into him so he could kiss her temple. She wriggled out of his grip and moved for the front door of the diner, opened it for him, her eyes rolling.

He entered ahead of her, waiting for her just in the foyer, and she joined him with a determined look on her face. Like going to her execution.

“Shit, Beckett, don’t look so thrilled.”

She grunted and strode ahead of him, moving for a table at the back. The waitress came to a halt on her way to intercept them - apparently she’d taken a good look at Beckett’s face and decided against it - and Richard chuckled and followed after her.

They settled down on opposite sides of a cozy table, her knees hitting his, and he reached under the wood to squeeze her thigh. “Scrambled eggs?”

“Kinda tired of scrambled eggs. I have those a lot. Pancakes,” she said.

“Both maybe?”

“Maybe an omelette,” she said quickly. “Show you how it’s done.”

“My omelette was good,” he said, surprised. “Right? You ate it.”

She bit her bottom lip and her fingers came around his wrist under the table. “Your omelette was just fine, baby. I just mean... you know, all different kinds.”

“Oh, okay. Do they have menus-”

Just then the waitress came to their table, apparently having finished her pouting and now deciding to serve them. She plunked down plastic-coated blue menus and teased a pen out of her hair.

Iconic, no doubt.

“Welcome to Blue Plate. Drinks?”

“Milk,” he said. “Kate?”

“Water for me. With lemon, thanks.”

“I’ll give you some time to look it over,” the waitress nodded, tucking her pen back in her hair without having written down a single thing.

When she’d left Kate rubbed her hands into her eyes and her shoulders slumped. He knew she was thinking about the fact that her father was most likely drunk in his apartment on a Saturday morning, and he felt responsible for that.

He hadn’t asked - he’d just acted. He was always doing that, jumping into things and getting it done. In the Army, that had been a problem when he was just an enlisted man, but as a leader of a squad, it’d been to his benefit. He got the job done.

On the other hand, he hated waiting for orders. His father had always laid out every mission to the utmost perfection, files and facts checked to the last detail, so that all Richard had to do was pick up the brief and go. While in the field, Rick made decisions on his own about the hard choices - which kills were necessary and which weren’t, who to trust and who to let go - but ultimately, he was still a man on orders.

With Beckett he had the tendency to arrange everything to suit his own rules, needs, expectations. He was going to have to figure out how to get a handle on that - the bullying part of it. She liked it when he took over in the bedroom, but he didn’t figure she was liking it so much anywhere else.

He shouldn’t have gone to get her father without her. There had been information he hadn’t had, and now she was a wreck because of it.

Well, looking at her now, not really a wreck. She was gorgeous; her hair had dried naturally this morning (he had kept interrupting her routines to touch her, or her him, and things had gotten out of hand a couple times), and she had minimal make-up, just eyeliner and mascara. Her cheeks were flush with the heat in the restaurant but her fingers were still cool against his wrist under the table.

She gave him one of those brittle smiles, the ones that tried but didn’t quite make it. No longer trying the fake ones out on him. Her fingers left his and she leaned against the table. “Open up your menu and pick your poison, love.”

And now she was calling him love outside the bedroom.

\-----

At fifteen after nine, when the pancakes and omelettes were laid down on the table, Richard realized her father wouldn’t be coming. He cut his eyes to the front door once more for good measure, but it was tourists and locals scouting for empty spots.

Beckett ate pieces of pancake, one small bite at a time, pushing them around in syrup and butter as if trying to delay the inevitable.

“That’s a lot of syrup, Beckett.”

She glanced up at him, her face flushing. “What?”

“I... that’s gross. I’m just - and all this butter?” He lifted one of the pancakes on his plate and watched the grease run off with mild revulsion.

Her laughter sounded a little too relieved, but he’d take it.

“Oh, poor baby. You have to eat butter and syrup,” she chuckled. “Grow a pair, soldier.”

He caught her eyes with his, a flashing look of knowledge between them, and he was surprised at how arousing it was, having someone who knew him, someone with common jokes and stories.

“I just don’t know how you can eat that. And the omelette. Look at it. The grease and cheese is so thick I can feel my stomach twisting in knots.”

“What a whiner,” she grumbled, but her lips were still lifted in a quirk of amusement.

He poked at the egg and cheese concoction. “Mine was better,” he said decisively. “At least it had vegetables.”

She made a noise, like a choking sound, and he lifted his head to look at her, surprised. She was waving her fork in front of her face as if to deny his concern, and then she coughed and pressed her hand to her chest, swallowed her bite.

“You okay?” he said.

“Fine,” she croaked, moving for her water. She took a long gulp of water and set it back down on the table. “Just - you know. Coughing.”

“You sounded so much better this morning. I thought the cold might be over-”

“Just comes and goes. With the last of it. You know.”

He tilted his head. “No, I don’t really know. How long is a cold supposed to last?”

“Could be - days. A week. I’m mostly over it. Don’t worry about it, Richard.”

He dropped it because she was getting that annoyed furrow to her brow, and even though it was terribly cute, he didn’t much like it when her frustration was directed at him.

“You’ve really never had a cold?”

He shook his head. “No. Well, except that one time when I was really little. Like I said, I don’t remember much about my mother so I don’t really have details about it. But with my father - my, uh, job has put me in some pretty extreme situations, and not even a sneeze.”

“Your job,” she said slowly. Her fork went still and she put her elbows on the table. “Are you really supposed to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he grinned. “But you’re... you. And I’m careful.”

“I’m me.”

“Well, aside from being a cop, Beckett, you’re probably the most stable person I’ve ever met.”

She burst out into laughter. Her hand came up over her mouth and her shoulders shook with it, but it didn’t sound like good laughter. It sounded like she was in on a joke he wasn’t privy to.

When she lifted her head on the last of her laughter, she shook her head at him. “Oh, love, that was probably your first mistake.”

“What?”

She sighed. “Nothing.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “You’re relentless, Beckett. You don’t stop - you see it through, to the end. It’s loyalty and passion and - and this sense of right. You do what’s right.”

“You can’t possibly know me after a week,” she said back. She was rolling her eyes at him, but she had a hesitancy to it that he knew meant he’d gotten her. Gotten to her.

“I know enough to know I can tell you about what I do.”

She rubbed her finger over her fork and took another slow bite, but she was still listening.

“And besides,” he added. “I can handle anything.”

She lifted an eyebrow at his arrogance, but it was true. And he wanted her to know he was sticking around - that he had the patience and the endurance to do this for as long as was necessary.

So he jumped into it, right down. “I’ve trained for this my whole life, Kate. From the time I was five, it was all about honing skills. I ran, I learned, I fought. I went to military boarding schools and my holidays were spent in one country after another, left on my own so that I had to use those skills to survive and make it home-”

“What?” she rasped. “Wait. How old?”

“Every year until I turned sixteen.”

“Alone. From five until sixteen?”

He shrugged. “I had to use what I’d learned - it forced me to be resourceful and to actually know the language. It wasn’t just flashcards learned by rote, it was having to barter my way onto a cargo ship in Mandarin or use my Russian to avoid being sold into slavery.”

“Holy fuck,” she whispered, both hands holding up her head. “Rick. That’s not...”

“It worked,” he said easily. “I learned to be the best. The first year was the hardest, because I’d been lazy about my studies, unwilling to train. My father made me disciplined.”

“At five.” Her eyes lifted to his and they were so wounded, and he didn’t understand why. He’d been purposefully trying to keep her distracted from her father’s condition in that apartment down the block; he couldn’t figure out how she’d turned back to it so quickly.

Maybe another story.

“When I was eight, it was Bangalore, India. I woke up in a movie theatre,” he chuckled. “I hadn’t learned the language like I should have. It was mortifying.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth and her eyes were sad.

“Hey, um..” Rick trailed off, surprised by the way she looked at him. “I had to... uh. Are you okay?”

“You were eight,” she said.

Oh-kay. Back to the story then; he was learning when not to push. “I hadn’t paid for my ticket. And the guy working the doors got me, and then it was the police, and I’d fucked it up big time. I was supposed to get out quietly and here I was - no ID, obviously not native, no passport, and I don’t know if you know this, but India is really strict about their visas.”

She blinked and her fingers pressed against her lips, but her words came through clearly. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, so, that was the year my father had to come pick me up.”

“What did he say when he got there? A police station in Bangalore.”

“Oh, not him. He didn’t come himself. It was one of his guys. They exfiltrated me and sent me home. It was - shit, worst day of my life. It was such a disappointment. I spent that Christmas break under lockdown.”

“Lock-lockdown?”

“Yeah, you know. Go to your room.” He grinned back at her. “Didn’t you ever get grounded?”

“Oh, she was grounded plenty,” came a rough voice.

Richard’s head snapped around and there he was - Jim Beckett - standing awkwardly before their table with his hat literally in his hands. An old Mets cap, and Jim dressed in a zippered sweater and a pair of nice jeans. He looked like a lawyer on a nice Saturday brunch, but he had the smudged look of a man hungover.

“Weren’t you, Katie?”

“Dad,” she gaped. Her eyes darted to Rick and then back to her father. “What are you...”

“This seat taken?” he said, already putting a hand on the back of the chair beside Kate.

“I...”

“Go ahead,” Rick jumped in, grinning widely now.

He’d shown up. It was nearly nine-thirty now, but Jim Beckett had made it to breakfast.

There was still hope, right?


	15. Chapter 15

Kate wasn’t eating.

Her father had ordered, but they all sat awkwardly around the table, no one making eye contact - not even with him.

“Jim, you were okay last night?” he asked, trying to get it started.

Kate’s eyes closed and his stomach dropped. He realized that had been the wrong thing to say. He glanced to Jim in panic, and the man was slowly shredding his paper napkin, his jaw working.

“To be honest, Richard, I’m not sure what happened.” He rubbed a hand over his face and his shoulders slumped.

Shit. Shit, that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Rick floundered, casting a helpless look to Kate, but she had turned her face away.

“Ah, Jim. I - well, that’s too bad. We had a nice conversation,” he said lamely. A really nice conversation, actually, and now where did that leave him?

“Well. Don’t hold me to it,” Jim said, a lightness to his tone that was completely false.

Rick’s guts twisted. Right, of course not. The man had been drunk, emotional; promises made at a time like that weren’t real.

“Rick, love,” Kate said softly, shaking her head at him. Her eyes were so tender on his, like she hurt for him.

He hadn’t told her that her father had promised to show up for him, he hadn’t told her any of that, but she must know something. She was used to it, wasn’t she? Used to having meaningful, heartbreaking conversations with her father while he was drunk and then the next morning, all that progress destroyed.

Fuck, that was awful.

Jim cleared his throat. “That a pet name, Kate? I’ve never heard you-”

“Is what a pet name?” she muttered, her brow furrowed as she gave her father a scathing glance.

Rick’s heart stopped. Her father couldn’t - if he pointed it out, Beckett would realize, she’d stop saying it, and he was hanging on to that unintentional slip with both hands.

“Jim,” he said heartily - too heartily maybe. “You come here often?”

When Jim glanced to him, Rick hoped something of last night had left an impression, because he was begging the man to let it go, change the subject. Just drop it, Jim.

“That sounds like a terrible line,” Jim grumbled. “But I come here often enough.”

“Fancy meeting you here this morning,” Kate said, narrowing her eyes at Rick. “Of all mornings.”

Uh-oh. Oh shit. It had just occurred to him that Beckett might not be happy at all with him arranging this. The undercurrents of hurt and disappointment were so strong that this mission was about as close to fubar as he’d ever had.

“Well, I found the note,” Jim shrugged. “It was tantalizing enough to bring me down here.”

“What note?”

“I - I left him a note,” Rick said quickly. “That’s all. Hey, Kate, can I try some of your omelette? Yours is different from mine. And maybe it’s better.”

Kate glanced down in surprise at her plate, then frowned. “What’s wrong with yours?”

He gripped his fork and took a breath, tried to figure out how to salvage this.

Richard was realizing that this had been a bad idea.

They just didn’t talk to each other. It was all strained tension and faces made when the other wasn’t looking. Beckett kept giving him these terrifying glares, but he figured he had to save this somehow.

“Have you ever made an omelette?” he asked Jim.

Her father gave him a surprised glance. “An omelette? Of course, son.”

“Oh,” he answered, knitting his eyebrows. “Lots of people make their own, I guess. I made one for Kate, but it wasn’t like this one.”

Jim glanced down at Richard’s plate and then gave Kate a swift look. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, this is pretty - greasy. Don’t you think?”

“It’s fine, Rick,” Kate cut in quickly. “Dad, tell him it’s fine.”

“I don’t know. Does it taste funny? I’ve never had any trouble with the omelettes here, Rick.”

“It’s just not what I was expecting. Cheese and butter and I don’t know what this is - some kind of cream?” He poked at his omelette with a fork and turned it over, watching the grease run out onto the plate. His stomach rolled and he glanced up to Jim, giving him a wincing look.

Beckett blanked her face and he saw her almost-imperceptible nudge into her father’s arm. What was that for? Did she and Jim have some kind of thing about omelettes?

“It’s probably cream cheese,” Jim nodded. “They’ll add it into the mix to keep it moist, creamy. You don’t like it?”

“I don’t know. It’s heavy.”

“What were you expecting?” Jim said carefully.

“I thought - you know, it said cheese and ham and spinach and mushrooms, and so I thought it would be healthier than this. I guess.”

He winced again and glanced up at Kate, but she had this weird look on her face, her mouth twisting in something he thought might be pain.

“Kate? You okay?”

She cracked up, laughter dredged up from somewhere, both hands over her eyes as her shoulders shook. Rick was confused, but Jim now had an answering smile on his face, and he’d done that - Rick had brought them both to amusement rather than that angry and ashamed tension.

“What’s so funny?” he said finally.

“You’re looking mighty upset about that omelette there, Rick.”

Kate waved a hand as if to put him off, her laughter finally smothered. When she lifted her head, she gave him a tender look. “Rick, have you had many omelettes?”

“Well, yeah, every now and then. I make them.”

“No, I mean, do you frequent restaurants or diners that actually carry omelettes?”

“Well. I - you know, I haven’t been... stationed in many places with omelettes, Beckett.”

“Son, I think what she’s getting at is how much experience do you have with them?”

“Oh,” he muttered, glancing down at his plate. “So this is probably what I can expect.”

He pushed his fork around in the cream cheese, grease squeezing out, and then it hit him what this was all about. He lifted his head to Kate, mouth dropping open.

“The omelette I made for you - oh, shit. It was...”

“You made it for me?” she interrupted.

“Of course.”

“You said you’d made it for yourself.”

He closed his mouth, his cheeks burning, and of course, Jim Beckett started to laugh, a low chuckle that echoed in the diner. Just then the waitress came back with Jim’s order - waffles with fruit topping - and set the plate before him.

Rick stopped the woman with a raised finger. “Can I change my order? This isn’t what I was looking for. I’ll pay for both, but I’d like to get something different.”

“Something wrong with it?”

“It’s... no, it’s me,” he said. “Can I get those?” He pointed at Jim’s waffles. “Lots of fruit like that.”

“Son,” Jim interrupted. “Let me warn you. It’s fruit filling. Might not be what you’re thinking of.”

“What does that mean?” he said, feeling faintly horrified.

“It’s got a lot of sugar,” Kate said quickly. “Welcome to America.” She turned to the waitress and gave the woman a business-like look. “Can we have a stack of buckwheat waffles with no butter, no syrup, no powdered sugar, and a bowl of fruit on the side?”

“Oh-kay,” the waitress said slowly, giving him a funny look. “I’ll have them rush it for you.”

He laid his fork down and the waitress took away his plate; he let out a tight breath as it left, and he spread his fingers out on the tabletop. “Was mine awful?” he asked Kate.

She bit her bottom lip.

“But you ate it,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Well.”

Jim gave her an interested look, turned to look at Rick with a raised eyebrow.

Richard held his breath; Kate had eaten that omelette he’d made, the one that apparently had been completely unlike any actual omelette made by most restaurants. What did that mean?

He couldn’t fathom why she’d sit down and eat his omelette unless...

“Well, Rick, I take it you’re into health food?”

“I was a vegan until Beckett,” he admitted. “I have eaten more hamburgers this past week than I’ve eaten in my whole life.”

“Really?” Jim mused. He was cutting into his waffles, sliding the crispy, golden thing in syrup and powdered sugar and a thick, viscous sauce that looked to be strawberry. It had looked interesting - edible too - until Jim had slathered it in all that... gunk.

“Rick,” Kate said softly. “Stop looking like at it like that. You’re scaring people.”

He automatically smoothed his features, reverting to his neutral, covert-op face, and Kate gave a little breathless laugh, blinking at him.

“Oh. You’re good at that.”

“He’s good at what?” Jim asked, lifting his head from his waffles.

Richard nudged her knee with his and she smiled, a slow and stunning smile that kicked him in the guts.

“Rick is good at exploring new foods. He’s very patient.”

“Only for you,” he muttered, relieved.

Not that he didn’t trust her father, but his covert job was supposed to be covert. And Jim’s alcoholism made him a weak link; he couldn’t carry that responsibility, and Rick wouldn’t make him.

“I’ve learned to trust Kate’s choices,” he said with a smile. “She inherently understands which foods are hard limits for me.”

“Hard limits?” Jim said, a smirk twisting his face. “And what does my daughter know about hard limits?”

Richard’s heart stopped. “Ah.” He blinked and felt a foolhardy mischief take over him. “Not much, actually. She has a tendency to just go for it.”

“I’m not sure I should know that.”

Kate groaned. “Shut up. Both of you. Enough.” But there was a strange gratitude in her eyes as she rebuked him, a thank you in her tone that promised more no-limits later.

Rick grinned, that thrill of having gotten away with something, and Jim actually chuckled, apparently as relieved as Kate was to have conversation.

He reached under the table and skimmed his fingers over her knee, tucking his hand under her thigh. She bit her bottom lip and knocked his hand away, but she wasn’t upset. She was eating her omelette now without any hesitation, and the tension had drained right out of her.

He’d done his job. So what if he looked like an idiot over the omelette?

Besides, it meant more to know that she’d eaten it, despite how unusual it must have been.

\-----

They said good-bye to Jim outside his apartment building. When her father went up, Kate let out a long breath and sank against the concrete edifice, her hands on her knees. She bowed her head, but she barely took even that moment before she was straightening up.

“Let’s get out of here,” she rasped.

He kept his mouth shut and followed her down the sidewalk. He knew most of this was his fault, that he kept fucking around where he shouldn’t be, but he didn’t know what to do next to make it right.

“You set that up, didn’t you?”

He swallowed his first response, tried to find just the right words. It was vital that he do this right. And from what he’d seen, she could hardly bear to talk about this.

He just didn’t know how to handle her, and he wasn’t used to not knowing what to do. He always knew how to charm and win his way inside; he knew what came next for an asset, and he knew what needed to happen with his contacts.

But with Beckett, this was all such a mystery. He had to work at it, and he hadn’t had to work at this since he’d been... well, since he’d been about eight years old, stuck in a Bangalore movie theatre and unable to escape from the police’s custody. He’d worked his ass off that year, to prove himself, to be worthy, and he’d found the exact right balance to appease his father.

They stopped at a crosswalk and the Saturday morning crowd kept them close, their fingers brushing. He went with avoidance, figuring that was already Beckett’s preferred method. “Thank you for not saying anything about my covert activities.”

She turned her head to him and her lashes were limned with morning light, making his heart hurt. She turned away again, a little sigh out of her mouth. “I wouldn’t. No matter what else - I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I’ve never - no one has ever known before. It’s - erotic.”

She glanced quickly to him again, a little laugh, almost not there. “No one knows at all?”

“Well, my father, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured. Her fingers hooked in his and she stepped closer. Her hair brushed his cheek when she turned into him, her kiss soft along his jaw. “You have a strange life.”

“I do? Oh, well, it’s not normal, I guess. No.”

“And yet, you’re so normal-acting,” she said, smiling at him a little. “Your father... that can’t have been easy, Rick. I don’t know... at least I got nineteen years with my parents. My mom, my dad. Do you call him ‘dad’?”

“Who? I wouldn’t call Jim - oh.” He flushed and tried not to let her see how that had hit him. “My father. No, I don’t - he never - I don’t know why not. Just never came up like that.”

“When you got to - did you say it was a training camp? - was he there? What did you guys talk about? How does that conversation even go?”

He knew she wanted to get out of her own head, her own relationship with her father, and so he tried to remember the details of that first meeting. “Well, I think he said, here’s how this will look. And I was rambunctious and wild and I think I smashed things. I remember breaking stuff and getting into so much trouble.”

“You broke things.”

“And he broke me,” Rick laughed. “So, you know. I got what was coming to me.”

“You were five.”

“Yeah. Five.”

“No, I mean - Rick, you were five. How...”

“What?” he said. He was distracted by the light having changed, by the man too close to him on his left who kept giving them looks. He gripped Kate’s hand in his and guided her away from the crowd, down a side street. He couldn’t forget that he’d been followed earlier in the week.

“Nothing,” she said softly. “So your father laid down the law and you fell in line.”

“Yes.” Rick shrugged and glanced over his shoulder, unable to help looking behind them even though it wasn’t at all professional. The man had turned down the street with them and his heart rate kicked up. “Kate. We need to... ah, we’re going to have to do something a little strange.”

“What?” she laughed. “Like this isn’t already so very strange.”

He glanced back to her, smiled tightly. “True. And, baby, it’s about to get even more so.”

“You plan on dragging me into that alley and fucking me against the brick?”

His cock suddenly flared painfully to life, blood surging, but damn if he didn’t need all of his wits right now. “Beckett,” he growled.

She nodded her head towards what was an actual deserted alley, dumpster and packing crates and whatever else that shit was, and the fact that she had thought of it made him so hot for her.

“Is that a no?” she murmured with a smile.

“That isn’t exactly... wait. Here, let’s just - no, listen, Beckett. Stop distracting me. There’s a man following us.”

She stiffened, her eyes flicking over his shoulder. “Grey suit jacket, sunglasses?” she said tightly.

“Yeah.”

“It’s possible I saw him earlier in the week,” she whispered. Her brow furrowed and she stepped in closer to him, her hand wrapping around his bicep. “Is he - was he following us then too?”

His guts tightened. “It’s not the same one I saw before. Are you sure it was him?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not sure.”

“But you think...?”

“I’m not sure. I thought we were being followed, Rick. That’s all.”

“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shot him a furious look. “Because that was back when you were following me. So when I found out you were, actually, following me, everything else was dismissed.”

He gritted his teeth and turned his head to glance once more behind them. They’d come to a stop and the man had done the classic checking of his phone and making a call trick. Could be real, could be a bad covert agent.

He couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t going to risk Beckett, not when he’d be leaving her on Monday.

“Into the alley,” he said quickly. “We’ll fuck.”

“What?” she gasped.

“In a manner of speaking,” he gave, quirking his lips at her as he pushed her back towards the empty alley. “Give it a good show, Beckett. We gotta shake this guy before we go back to your place and fuck for real.”

“Well, then,” she said, hooking her arm around his neck and jumping him. He grunted and caught her, laughing, and she rocked her hips into him, thighs so strong around him. “Fuck away, baby.”

\-----

“Fuck,” she gasped against his throat. He felt the word down in his cock. Hot and pushed to the breaking point, both of them, and it’d taken only five minutes, five fucking minutes to be completely undone.

Well, non-fucking minutes. Close-to-fucking minutes.

She rocked against him again, legs tightening around his waist, this perfect and terrible friction that made him weak. And strong. Weak and strong. He could slay fucking dragons for her; he could cry. He could deny his own father and he’d fall apart inside her in the same instant.

Fuck, fuck, he was going to have to do this. Against the damn brick wall. And where was the damn agent who’d been supposedly following them? He had to get this together; he couldn’t put her in danger just because he couldn’t bear not to have her.

He could wait five fucking minutes more. He could do this; he could keep it together.

Oh, fuck, the noises she made. He couldn’t help pressing his hand between them and finding that heat between her legs. She growled and bit on his adam’s apple, and he rubbed against her, found her breast with his other hand and roughly abraded her nipple through the shirt.

She moaned, something caught and dangerous and real in it, something more than wild fun against a brick wall.

And then the man walked into the alley and made an exaggerated noise of turning around and fumbling his apologies as he left again.

“He’s - gone,” Kate gasped at his neck. “Oh, oh, please-”

He couldn’t take it. “Are you - you wanna do this? You - he’s either waiting to jump us or he’s gone, I don’t know, Kate. Kate, I don’t - I can’t-”

“Just - fast. Do it fast, Rick.”

He moaned and claimed her mouth, sucking hard on her tongue because it was just too much, it was too much. He needed something from her that maybe he shouldn’t be asking for, not now that he knew so much more of her, but he kept taking it. She gave it and he took it, and what strength did he have against her?

She was working at his pants, her hands fast and hard between their bodies, and he tried to give her room, tried to get enough of his brain working to see if maybe this was a really stupid, terrible idea.

She got his pants undone and thrust her hand down his boxers and he cursed, nearly coming right there in her hand.

“Oh, fuck, how hard you are,” she groaned. “I love - love how you feel, all of this for me, baby.”

He groaned and his forehead crashed against hers, but she nudged him away with her cheek, kissed his temple as she worked his cock in her hand. “All of it for you,” he rasped. What a fucking terrible idea, she was a cop (not for long like this, holy shit)-

“I want this inside me,” she moaned. “Push inside me, Rick. Come on.”

“I gotta, you’re, Kate. Kate, I need your pants off or something, something’s gotta give here, love-”

She moaned and writhed against the brick, but she dropped a leg and he pinned her with a hip, trying to keep her steady as he sought the button of her jeans. She was so alive against him, moving and driving him crazy with it, her hand around his cock and squeezing, and he had to get her damn pants down.

She growled something harsh and shoved his hand away, dropped to her feet in the alley and peeled her own jeans halfway down her thighs. Pale pink panties tangled in the material. “Fuck, come on, Richard. Hurry. I am not getting arrested for this. Not today.”

He couldn’t imagine how the fuck he was going to fit inside her with her legs pinned together by her jeans, but he was going to damn well try.

“Turn around,” he growled.

“Wh-”

“Turn around, Beckett, fuck. Right now.”

She snarled back at him, pushed in hard to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, biting his lower lip until he tasted blood. But then she spun around, her ass pale and perfect in the shadows of the alley, and he wrapped his arm around her waist and pushed in from behind.

She moaned when her cheek scraped the brick, and he worked his arm up to give her more protection. Her ass pressed back into him and he had to shove in between her legs to widen her as much as possible with those jeans still clinging to her knees.

“Hurry, baby, I need you,” she gasped. Her body was already doing an intense, wicked rhythm back against him, and he took a moment to run his hand up her inside thigh and cup her arousal, slicking it back between her cheeks.

She moaned and her forehead pressed into the brick, curses falling out. Rick slid his hand to her ass and lightly slapped her cheek, making her stutter and jerk, her hands fisting against the brick.

“Now,” she growled.

He shifted and guided his cock between her legs, the tight and narrow space she’d made ready for him. She was whining low in her throat as he coated his cock in her arousal, sliding through her folds and seeking her entrance. He could barely move, so narrow were her legs, so hot the feel of her against him, but he felt the nudge and resistance of her sex and he paused.

“Fuck me already,” she ordered. “Now, Richard.”

He thrust inside her and she cried out, her body tense against the wall, her arms locking to push back against him. He moaned at the hot, tight feel of her around him, and he angled his body over hers to feel her back against his chest.

She turned her head into his and bit his ear, making his cock pulse inside her. He drove her harder, his hips pounding her against the brick, crushing her to his own arm and not even caring.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” she whispered. Her eyes rolled back as they closed and she moaned at his ear, her lips grazing his jaw. He nuzzled into her, unable to get at her mouth, his balls aching with every slap of her ass against him.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he groaned.

“Come for me. You gotta - come inside me and let me walk around with it all the way home.”

“Fuck,” he shouted. His hips spasmed and his cock sank deeper so that her body rose up the wall and her knees and chin scraped. He cursed an apology and moaned against the feel of her, a fist, a fucking fist around him, and then he lost it entirely.

He came hard inside her, everything in him just to hold her up against the wall and not drop her. She moaned and pushed back into it, always so fucking ready for more, and he managed to get with it enough to cram his other hand between her and the wall and sink his fingers into her sex.

He scraped at her folds in a blind man’s attempt to find her, somehow managed to snag her clit in passing. She went off like a fucking rocket, a cry of release that had her knees slamming into the brick. His own heart was rattling in his rib cage and his legs shaking with the aftermath.

She twitched and contracted around him and her body sank back towards his rather than the wall, like she trusted him to hold her up, like she wanted him at her back and no one, nothing else.

Fuck, he was dementedly sappy when he was spent inside her.

He carefully withdrew, pulled her panties up from the tangle of her jeans. She was gulping every breath and pushing a hand through her hair to hold if off her forehead, and then she zoned in and stood on her own two feet.

He watched her pull her jeans back up and button them, and he fixed his own boxer briefs around his sticky, limp cock, zipped himself up again with a wet hand. She reached for him then and brought his fingers to her mouth, licked the come and arousal off him, her tongue drawing down to his palm and curling.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“You do it so well,” she murmured. And her eyes came up to meet his and there was so much - so much - she had so much to offer in them.

He couldn’t believe how much.

He cupped the back of her neck and crashed his mouth into hers, tasting and giving and luxuriating in this woman who would fuck against a brick wall in an alley and also eat breakfast with him after he’d invited her drunkard of a father and put his nose in her business.

So much; she had so much.

He wanted it all.

But maybe away from the stench coming off the dumpster.

\-----

Kate sat close to him on the subway ride back to her apartment; she smelled like butter and syrup and half that rich scent was really the taste in his mouth of her arousal. Maybe his own too.

She was heated still, her skin flushed and warm. She had taken off her coat and her forearms were bare and she kept brushing against him and if she didn’t stop doing that he was going to explode.

She laughed and he glanced over at her from the corner of his eye, saw her amusement. She knew exactly the effect she had over him and she was enjoying it.

“You’re getting it,” he muttered.

“More than I’ve already gotten it?”

He grunted and wrapped his arm around her neck, tugged her hard against his body. “You’re getting more than you can handle.”

“Oh, you don’t even know what I can handle.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Excuse me.” A woman sitting in the seat ahead of them huffed and straightened up, giving them a snarly look. “Keep your pants on. It’s public transportation.”

The subway slowed and came to a stop at the platform and the old lady sniffed and got up, shuffled to the doors and stepped off, just like that.

Kate burst into laughter, leaning hard against his shoulder in her mirth. The reality of her amusement was somehow so much sharper and richer than even the brick wall in the alley, like that close encounter and the feel of her sex against his fingers was less true than the way her mouth opened and the laughter spilled out.

“I’m not sure I can keep my pants on,” he grumbled. “Not when you’re so beautiful.”

She wasn’t giggling like she had been drugged and sick, but her hum of happiness was better. Whatever that strange breakfast had been, however poorly they had pulled it off, they had still pulled it off. And she was happy.

He’d made her happy.

Rick leaned in and kissed her cheek with a resounding smack, overwhelmed by how much her happiness informed his own.

She caught the side of his face with her fingers, cupping his cheek and rubbing her thumb over his bottom lip.

“Thanks,” she said softly. And he thought maybe she was grateful for more than just the compliment.

\-----

He danced her down her hallway, crowding her back, door by door, his mouth attacking hers, sucking her tongue, clashing teeth. Groping. She groped really damn hotly, and he hadn’t ever realized that was a thing before, how well a woman groped, but damn, she hit all the right places.

He gave up pretending he was just kissing her and he gripped the back of her thighs and shoved his knee between her legs, making her moan into his mouth.

“Hurry, hurry,” she gasped.

It was only eleven or so; they had all this time stretching out before them but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t ever be enough to do the things he wanted to do to her. “You taste so good.”

“It’s the pancakes,” she laughed. Her hands were working at his belt, tugging him into her; she was grinning up at him even as she tried to get in his pants. “And the real maple syrup.”

“I think it’s in spite of the maple syrup,” he said, shoving to get her moving. “Look, we are five feet from your front door. I’d rather not to do this in front of your neighbors.”

“Oh, no?”

“Your bare ass is lovely, Beckett, but I don’t think I want to share it with anyone else.”

“Didn’t seem to be such a concern against the bricks.” She smirked and pulled on the end of his belt like reins, walking him down the hall. She was going backwards, a siren in jeans and leather jacket, and he peeled the lapels around her shoulders and down to her arms, trapping her.

“What happened to getting in the door?” she said, tilting her head. She was such a fucking tease.

He craved it.

“Maybe I don’t have the patience.” He reached for her pants, popped the button while she stood there, and then he tugged the zipper down. “Maybe I can’t wait to get you off.”

“Maybe I’ll let you,” she whispered.

He stared into her eyes for a lot longer than he meant to, but she had nothing but confidence and tenacity and arousal burning there. “You’ll let me?” he husked, coming up close against her body and pressing her into the wall. “Where anyone could walk off that elevator and see you hot for me? People you have to see every damn day?”

“Walk off the elevator and around the corner in my dim, poorly-lighted apartment building with the security door in the lobby and fellow tenants who are habitually never here on weekends?” She gave him a smile that slayed, and she gripped the sides of his coat with wicked intention.

“Yes, that,” he rasped.

“Try me.”

Rick slid his fingers under her panties and wriggled down into the cramped space made tight by her jeans. She went up on her toes like she couldn’t stand it, and she let out a little noise, her throat arching. He leaned in and licked the line of her neck, suckled at her skin as he felt the vibrations of her moan.

Her sex was so wet already, and he knew it was because of him, a brick wall and him. “Oh, baby, you like it dangerous, don’t you?”

She mewled and her hips rocked into his hand. He’d thought about doing this fast, getting her off, giving her a little thrill in the hallway, but suddenly he wanted to draw it out, make her last, make her suffer through every little noise, every creak of the elevator.

“You like knowing that I’m having my way with you in your hall, Kate? No dumpster to block us from view. Your training parter might come around to check on you at any moment.”

She moaned. That had done it. Her lashes fluttered but her eyes stayed on his, intent and dark. He pressed his torso against hers, let his mouth trail along her jaw to her lips, smudging a kiss across that shallow panting of her breath.

“You didn’t answer me, Kate. You like my hand shoved into your pants in your hall?”

“I - I like - you,” she stuttered. It seemed to be important to her, the distinction.

Was it because he’d mentioned Royce? “Do you like the way my fingers press into you? Caress you here? Scrape at your clit.”

“I like - like your fingers inside me more,” she groaned.

“We’ll get there, baby.” He stroked her folds, tight in the cramped heat of her jeans, her panties damp against the back of his hand. “I want to play with you first.”

Her throat tightened up as he stroked; her noises got higher, more choked. She wrapped her arm slowly around his neck and gasped at his ear, her hips moving to the rhythm he’d set up.

Wet, slick, warm. Something about her folds like secrets, something about the hard mystery of her blooming under his touch. “Tell me what you like,” he insisted.

“I like - like the way you touch me,” she whispered. “Finger fuck me. I love it.”

His heart gave a wrenching leap. “Yeah?”

“How you talk to me in the middle of it,” she said. Her voice was thin, like she could barely keep it together. “You make me so hot. All the time.”

“You’re already so hot, love. Your sex is burning for me.”

“Fuck,” she moaned. “You gotta - gotta-”

“I will. Just not yet.”

“Rick,” she gasped.

“I want to slide my fingers around in your sex and see just how wet I can make you, Kate. I want to hear it. Loud. So that if someone stepped off the elevator, he’d hear it too; he’d know exactly where I had my hand.”

Royce had said no. And she knew who he was talking about, the fucking idiot. He longed to see Royce walk down the hall and see her falling apart for him. For him. No one else.

“Would he know? I’m the one who gets you off.”

“Y-you.” She cried out and her hips jerked into his hand, her control completely shattered now. She made these wild, suppressed noises with every stroke, and he found himself experimenting with it, trying to find new erogenous zones. How long could he drag out this tight space before her peak, how long could she be dangled at the highest peak?

Whenever she gasped, he discovered it was something she wasn’t expecting. Whenever she groaned, it was a sensation she craved and was giving herself over to. He found a slide of wet, thick folds that weeped for him, and she nearly was as well.

And after an intense absorption with her every response, he realized he didn’t want either of them thinking about Royce. He wanted only her; she better damn well only want him.

“Rick,” she mewled. Like she could sense the direction of his thoughts. “Please. It’s too much. Please.”

“Are you asking for it?” He gave a vicious rub just to the side of her clit. “Are you begging me for relief?”

“Please,” she gasped, her hips jerking. He loved how fierce she got when he held her down, loved how her body writhed as he pinned her between her legs. She had hooked her calf behind his knee and now she worked her hips in this tight, hot little rhythm as she got closer to what she wanted.

There was no one but them. The wetness coating his hand. Her painful tight thrusts for more. He nipped her earlobe. “I want to make you come all day, Kate. I want to make you exhausted with orgasms, so that all you can do is lie under me and moan my name.”

“Oh, fuck, fuck, please, please let me come.”

He growled and sealed his mouth over her pleading, stroking her hard with two fingers. He swallowed down the nosies she made and forced a rough rhythm on either side of her clit. He didn’t push inside her, he didn’t give her direct stimulation; he just rubbed her deeply until she was vibrating in his arms, arched so hard into him that her could hear her skull grinding against the wall.

And then he crushed her clit with his thumb. She came with a scream that rattled down the hallway.

The world seemed to stand still at the shock. Her eyes flared open, her face to the ceiling on that vicious arch of her neck. He flicked her clit once and was rewarded with a violent twitch of her whole body, another flood of wetness. One of her legs dropped.

She gasped for breath, her eyes roving the ceiling as she panted under the looming bulk of his body. He cupped her sex with his soaking wet hand, cradling her between her legs - and wanting her.

She tilted her head down and stared at him, her lashes low, and then her smile stretched across her face. “You are so very damn good at that.”

He grinned back and leaned in to kiss her softly. “And you’re loud .”

“No one came to see what all the fuss was about?”

Suddenly a locked flipped loudly down the hall and a door cracked.

Richard jerked his hand out of her pants and she gasped, coming up hard against him. He turned her away from the neighbor’s door and she gave him a wide-eyed stare.

“Is somebody there?” a voice called out. A middle-aged man, a suspicion in his voice.

Kate cursed softly and tilted her head into him, hiding.

Rick cupped the back of her head with his dry hand, hustled her backwards down the hall towards her own door. Silent. “Where’s your key? Beckett. Beckett, where are your keys?”

“My jacket - in my jacket - shit. I don’t even know my neighbors’ names and this is not how I want to introduce myself. I think he works for the fucking city, Richard.”

He kissed her hard, fished her key out of her pocket, and shoved it into the lock.

“I can hear someone, are you there? I thought I heard a scream.”

Rick pushed Kate through her door and slammed it shut, and she burst out into a breathless laugh, leaning back against the door. Slumped. “A scream,” she choked out, her eyes catching his.

He could smell her arousal still.


	16. Chapter 16

She unbuttoned his pants in the living room, stopping him before he could even move much inside. He fumbled with the keys still in his hand, tossed them haphazardly towards her entry table. He heard them hit and slide off, crashing to the floor, but he couldn’t care less.

She had her hand around his cock.

“Beckett,” he growled.

“Fuck, this is my favorite part.”

He laughed, eyes flaring open. She was stroking him with both hands, his cock out of the slit of his boxers, and her dark head bowed over him. He combed his hands through her hair and pushed it back, cupped her jaw, tucked the strands behind her ears, trying to see.

Her chin was scraped from the brick wall. “Favorite part?”

“Holding you in my hand,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked up to his and back down to his cock, and he felt himself growing harder for her. Wasn’t possible, but there it was, fucking huge, pulsing. It was the only thing he could feel, her hands around him.

“Thought you meant - meant favorite part of my body,” he got out. His hands trembled at her ears, fingers spreading to catch her hair. But she’d meant favorite part of sex with him.

“Mm, favorite part of your body is that fucking mouth.”

He laughed again, breathless, surprised actually, because she had a fucking one-track mind like this. But his mouth, huh? His mouth.

Rick leaned in, angling her head up to meet his lips. She growled as he touched his tongue to her mouth, took a deeper kiss from him. Her hand clutched at his cock, released his head to fondle his balls inside his boxers.

“Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck, Kate, I don’t-”

“Come in your pants,” she said. “Come in your pants so I know.”

“Know?” he mumbled, forehead crashing into hers. She was ruthless, her hands kneading his sac like Chinese medicine balls.

“Know it’s me,” she panted. “All because of me.” Her mouth sealed over his, tongue and teeth, and his head was spinning.

He couldn’t help rocking his hips into her hand, couldn’t help the fierce clench in his guts. She began stroking his cock, fisting him, and he left a curse in her mouth.

Fingers, palm, hot hand and the twist of his balls drawing up. She was growling appreciation into his mouth, come for me, fucking come in your pants, Richard and he couldn’t even open his eyes to look.

He roared her name and shot off in her hand, felt his come leave him in a hot stream as his cock helplessly throbbed.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she crooned. Her mouth touched his, touched his, kissing soft and easy now as he swayed on his feet. “It’s just me, just me, love.”

He dragged in a searing breath, not near enough air in his lungs, and peeled open his eyes.

“Kate,” he said, mouth numb, staring at her. “So fucking sexy. My come-”

She grinned and gripped the hem of his shirt. “Your come smeared over my hand, huh, baby? Does it for you.”

“Yeah,” he croaked.

She wiped her hand off on his shirt with a smirk, and he promptly ripped it off over his head, wanting skin, her skin, his, something. She took his thumb, brought his hand to her stomach and he touched the wet stain spreading across her belly, the material of her shirt plastered to her skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

“You did that,” she murmured, eyebrow raised. “If I didn’t know better, might be a little pissed you went to the party without me, Rick.”

“But you know better,” he growled, gripping her hips to tug her against him. “You asked for it. Demanded it.” Wet shirt to his skin, and he was fiercely fucking hungry for her. “Feel that?”

“You’re hard,” she smiled. “You always bounce right back.”

“For you, I do,” he murmured, dropping his hands to her ass and squeezing. “You need these clothes off, Beckett.”

She shimmied in his arms and got her hands into the waistband of her still unbuttoned pants, peeled them down her thighs. He caught the hem of her shirt and pulled it up as she went down, separating her from the material even as she bent over to take off her shoes.

When she came back to him, she was three inches shorter, hair disheveled, and her eyes were on his cock.

“Touch it,” he growled.

She put her hands down, resisting just because he’d said it.

“That is your favorite part,” he reminded her, fingering the strap of her bra. She grinned and lifted a look to him. He grinned back. “What? You said it.”

“Little less talking and a little more fucking, Rick.”

“Thought you said you liked my fucking hot mouth.”

Kate laughed, and suddenly she was lifting her arms around his neck and jumping him, legs twining around his waist. He gripped her ass and kissed her laughing mouth, sucking on her tongue and stepping towards the couch.

Start where they began.

\-----

When he sat down, she crawled off him and stood up, hands moving to her panties. Rick leaned forward and helped, teeth at her hip bone, tongue circling, hands sliding her panties down. She moaned and clung to his neck with one arm, her foot lifting to step out of her underwear.

Lace. She’d started wearing these scrumptious, tiny scraps of material this week, for him. He knew it was for him, because she had been wearing plain black cotton those first few nights, when she was sick. This was another pair that made his cock throb.

He shoved her panties into the crack of the cushion to reclaim later (when she’d fallen asleep and he could sneak them), and she was already pushing him back and climbing onto his lap again.

Rick gripped her hips and pushed up to her breasts, shoved past her bra to cup their heaviness. Heavy with her arousal, with the last two orgasms he’d given her. He leaned in and rubbed his mouth over the warm skin he’d exposed.

“Enough,” she hissed. “Enough. I can’t take anymore of this.”

“What?” he husked, looking up at her.

She shoved on him, unsnapped her bra and flung it off, grinding her hips down against his cock. “No more teasing,” she said, still grinding, hard, gripping his arms.

“I think this constitutes teasing,” he growled back.

Her nostrils flared and she kissed him, moaning into his mouth. One of her hands scraped down his chest to his cock, gripping him hard. His hips bucked and she lined them up, but he couldn’t hold back. He took hold of her and drove himself inside.

She mewled, forehead dropping to his shoulder, body shuddering. She was so still, held so very still around him.

Ah, fuck. She had to move. “Still teasing, Beckett.”

She gave a helpless sound of amusement, lifted her head to stare back at him. She looked completely undone. Wild. “Think how I feel.”

“How do you feel?” he whispered, caressing her hips and moving his hands up, higher, cupping her breasts.

She mewled again, her head dropping back for a moment as he played with her breasts. Nipples so tightly peaked. He leaned in and licked a nipple, breathed hotly over it. She was trembling now, clutching his biceps with both hands, her knees squeezing his waist.

“How do you feel, Kate.”

“No more foreplay,” she moaned, but she sounded so damn desperate.

He tongued her breast and squeezed, and she cried out, dropping her head back to his shoulder, curling in over him. He flicked her nipple and moved his mouth up to her jaw, sucking.

“No more foreplay,” she panted, a hand coming to the back of his neck and gripping.

“This isn’t foreplay,” he whispered. “How do you feel?”

“I feel... on fire,” she said, mouth at his cheek. “On fire. I need you.”

“I’m already here,” he reminded her, lifting his hips so she could feel him.

Kate gasped, gripping him inside, so tight, so hot.

“Already right here,” he said, thrusting again. She was quivering; she was going to come. He could feel how on the edge she was. “No more foreplay?”

“Ever,” she moaned. “I never need it, just - you just - fucking touch me, hard for me, and I’m so wet, so ready.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he rasped.

She gripped his neck and ground her hips against him. He took a steadying breath and squeezed her breasts, and then she began to move. Slowly, up and down, riding him, her head bowed forward like she couldn’t hold herself up.

He massaged her breasts, thumbing her nipples and twisting harder than he meant to. She cried out and moved faster, bearing down on him, so wet and hot and tight around his cock. Two orgasms before this and five this morning and she moved over him like she hadn’t come in ages, like she needed it so badly.

“Come for me, Kate,” he whispered, bringing a hand up to push the hair back from her face. “Come.”

“With me,” she panted. Her eyes darted up to his, deep and hungry, so dark. “With me. Come with me. Same time, Rick.” Like it meant something to her; like it would say something.

He grunted and lifted his hips, felt her driving down on him. They were flawless together, so fucking good, and he felt his cock thickening ever harder, his balls tightening. He dragged a hand down to the messy heat between them and found her clit.

She shouted, jerking hard. He was unraveling, his control already slipping, and then she laid her mouth to his, open, hot, heavy.

He rubbed hard on her clit, and she cried out in his mouth, body vibrating. And then he was coming. He was coming and she was climaxing, and their orgasms locked them into each other, intense and fierce.

\-----

His first thought when he could know himself again was:

Oh, fuck. She’s so young.

He had no idea what he was doing with this girl, but every time he thought about lifting her away from his body and letting her go, his guts churned and his heart clenched and his chest might collapse.

It was that bad.

She was so young. Barely an officer, barely out of the Academy, barely any sexual experience. So raw and unpolished, uncut. And yet the whole world in her eyes, grief and tragedy and life that he couldn’t even touch, things he’d never experienced.

He palmed her neck and shifted an arm under her ass and leaned forward to stand.

“No,” she grunted, slapping his shoulder. “Don’t move. Don’t.”

He stopped moving, frozen at her command, and then when she melted into his chest, he leaned back against the couch again. “Won’t,” he promised softly.

“Just - buzzing,” she mumbled. He could feel the twitch of her thigh muscles still, her senses on overload. He smiled into her hair and she grunted something nasty at him about being proud, but he heard what she really meant.

“Me too,” he told her. “Buzzing. You’ve crawled under my skin, Beckett.”

She fumbled her hand at his shoulder and then her hand found his mouth; she pressed two fingers into his lips. “Shh, shh. Even your voice plucks at me.”

Why was that so fucking erotic? Like bawdy poetry. Even your voice plucks at me and with his cock still buried inside her, it was like an electric current running through him. Amped. Charged.

She shuddered as his cock came to attention inside her. She squeezed her thighs at his legs and her knees at his hips and he tried very hard not to move, not to make it worse.

Her cunt contracted. He gasped and clutched the back of her neck, words choking in his throat that he couldn’t speak.

Happened again, and he could tell she was just tumbling through aftershocks, she wasn’t trying to fuck with him, prod him into anything, but neither of them seemed able to help it, control it.

If she kept twitching around him he was going to come.

Her arms jerked into her chest, palms planted against his ribs, her body shivering around him. It made his cock throb, slow pulses, and she mewled.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Sorry, it’s never been like this. You just make me hard-”

She moaned and her hips thrust against him, and then they were fucking. He couldn’t stop her, he couldn’t stop himself; she was rocking over his lap with his cock buried inside her and rigid now. She was so fucking tight, she was so tight and so damn wet and thick, everything was thick and ragged and she was crying out, she was making these noises that killed him.

He was going to scream. But all he did was grit his teeth as he climaxed roughly inside her.

She gasped, stiffening in his arms, but she wasn’t quite there. He wanted to help, wanted to fucking end it, and he ruthlessly went for her clit.

He scraped his thumbnail over the raw nerve and she screamed and came violently around him.

\-----

He pulled out and she gasped, but her limbs were shivering and she didn’t move. So he scooped her up and stood with her, carried her back towards her bedroom, kicking away her bra that had wound up around his ankle.

Somehow. Fuck, how the hell had they gotten like this?

Her panties were in the couch cushions; he was damn well going back for those. Carry the smell of her around with him. DNA on something like that, which was fucking awful when he thought about it like that, but he’d be careful. He’d torch them if he was made; he wouldn’t compromise her.

Rick grinned into the side of her face and lowered her down to the bed. She was already fucking compromised. He’d compromised her in a thousand different positions and a hundred places, and she’d done the same to him.

Compromised.

That what this was. She had compromised him.

He stood up again, staring down at her as she drifted off to sleep, pushed past her limits (did she even have any fucking limits?). One thin hand unfurled on the mattress. So young. God, she was so young.

He was thirty-two, and she was twenty-two, and the ten years was a huge fucking difference. She’d had a couple of sexual encounters, and a boyfriend who’d been a fucking selfish prick it sounded like, and Rick had been the first one to ever go down on her, first to ever touch her ass while fucking, so many others. So many others that he doubted she’d ever tell him just how new.

What the fuck was he doing?

What had he done?

Because it was already done. It was done.

He turned, left her in the bed, hunting back through the living room to the couch. He shoved his hand between the cushions and found her damp panties, gripped them in his fist, not letting himself do anything more creepy than he already was by taking them. Like rub them against his cheek.

She had compromised him. He’d expanded her sexual horizons, and that was a kind of compromising, sure, but she had fucking cracked him open. He was damaged. Damaged by her in the best fucking way, holy hell, and he couldn’t even find the panic to push back from the edge. He didn’t want to push back from the edge.

He put her underwear to his nose and closed his eyes, inhaled that tangy scent of her arousal.

Oh, God. Fuck. He wanted her so badly.

His cock rose, a throbbing bob of his erection as he crushed her panties in his hand. He glanced down at his naked body and saw the evidence of his undaunted cock, lowered his hand to wrap his erection in her panties.

The wet stain of her crotch made him hiss, made his hips thrust.

Fuck.

He couldn’t come across her fucking couch. Stain the fabric. It was a fucking nice couch and he wasn’t doing this.

The lace scraped as he made the move to withdraw; the lace scraped his head and he hissed, head falling back.

One more. One more and maybe he could get a fucking handle on it and give her a chance to recover, to rest before they went at it again.

He wanted to fuck her from behind it like they had in the alley. So damn snug that way, and holding her against his chest so that his hands were filled with her breasts.

Fuck, he had to just work one out, really quickly. He had to.

Rick gripped his cock with her panties and hustled into the bathroom. He flipped on the shower head and waited for the water to pound into the bottom of the tub.

And then he stood with his cock in his hand over the porcelain side of her clawfoot bathtub, and he scraped the lace back and forth. Back and forth. Twisting the material around his erection, letting it scrape and tease his balls, jerking harder when his hips began to thrust.

He closed his eyes and pictured her, found the image that came to mind wasn’t of her naked in her bed or even her breasts in his face as she rode him on the couch, but Kate at the diner stealing french fries from his plate and sucking on her straw, pulling milkshake up into her mouth. Her lips pursed and the effort of her jaw to work that strawberry milkshake, her eyes lifted to him as she listened to something he said.

She would pop off the straw and fire back some witty or cutting comment, but her eyes always betrayed her. Dark and beautiful, they always showed her up, revealed the humor, the tenderness, the burgeoning affection.

She liked him; she couldn’t help herself. She loved fucking, but she liked him.

He gave a hoarse cry and squeezed the base of his cock but it was no good; his come jetted out of him in thick ropes, hitting the side of the bathtub, before being washed away by the water.

He sucked in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, stared down at the water mixing with his come and draining away. He was finally limp in his hand and he unwound the lace from his raw cock, the angry red places where he’d abraded his skin.

The next time they fucked, it was going to border on pain, but he deserved it. Maybe it would temper his response, maybe it would keep him from demanding too much. If he was chafed, in his augmented body, then she was too.

Rick flipped off the water and listened to it drain, and then he folded her panties carefully. He opened the bathroom door and moved quietly into her bedroom, tucked her panties into his unzipped bag below his phone.

He padded back to the bed and sat on top of the comforter with her, both of them naked.

He didn’t touch her. He was afraid he’d wake her.

He was afraid he’d want her again.

\-----

A slap to his hip roused him; he hadn’t been sleeping, he’d been trying to read, but maybe he had dozed off. He was sitting up against her headboard, he had a crick in his neck.

Another slap. A pinch. Scuffling beside him.

“Off, get off, ‘m freezing.”

He shifted, turning his head to look at her. She was goose flesh and shivering, trying to crawl under the covers they were on top of. He grunted and moved, jerking the quilt thing down with the sheets, ballooning it back over them.

She shuddered and curled into her pillow, worked her body closer to his as the covers settled.

“Still cold?” He lifted his arm and let her curl up at his thigh, her knee sliding over his shin.

“Better,” she mumbled.

He stroked the hair out of her face and down her neck, petting absently until her eyes had fallen shut.

He went back for the book that he’d let drop from his fingers, flipped through it slowly looking for the page he’d been on. The Castle by Kafka. It was proving to be-

“You stopped,” she slurred.

Rick blinked, glanced down at her. She was struggling to open her eyes and he slowly laid his hand to the top of her head.

Kate sighed, breath skirting his hip, and she - she nuzzled her cheek into his forearm. His breath stuttered in response, but he carefully stroked his fingers through her hair, combing the soft strands at her neck.

She was humming. Purring. The sound of her was like an ax in his chest.

With his free hand, he flipped to the right place, where he’d last been reading, and he lifted the book up to continue.

But he could barely concentrate, his eyes skimming the text:

"You don't know what fidelity is," she said, his nearness putting her a little on the

defensive, "what your relations with the girls may be isn't the most important point. The

fact that you go to that house at all and come back with the smell of their kitchen on

your clothes is itself an unendurable humiliation for me. And then you rush out without saying a word. And stay with them, too, the half of the night. And when

you're asked for, you let those girls deny that you're there, deny it passionately,

especially the wonderfully retiring one. And creep out of the house by a secret way. No,

don't let us talk about it any more."

"Yes, don't let us talk of this," said K., "but of something else, Frieda. Besides,

there's nothing more to be said about it. You know why I have to go there. It isn't easy

for me, but I overcome my feelings. You shouldn't make it any harder for me than it is.”

Kate sighed in her sleep and her mouth came open at his hip, hot and erotic. He sank his fingers in her hair and clung to the thick knot of it, blinking hard at the book whose words were swimming in front of him.

The Castle.

Why was a fucking book haunting him like this? Her body pressed against his thigh and hip, warm in the bed, should have been more than enough to hold his attention. But he’d been trying to let her rest, give her the chance to sleep and recover. And yet this book was getting under his skin.

He’d gotten enough sex the last week to last him for months, enough honest enjoyment and sincerity in this bed that he would come away fortified for the mission. Sound of body, but-

Not sound of mind.

He should be able to leave for Ireland a better man. He would. He knew he would in ways that had nothing to do with his training. Because it was that training that made him sick. The thought of other girls, the thought of ‘overcoming his feelings’ and touching another woman for the job, to ferret out national secrets or terrorist plots, made him furious.

Furious that he had to do it at all, that he would be forced to betray something in himself to do that. And how often he’d been forced to do that in his thirty years. Never had it even crossed his mind what he’d been doing. How vitally wrong it was now, vitally wrong, to touch some girl’s thigh and smile at her, kiss her mouth, travel down her neck, all those places he had touched Beckett, Kate, places he only wanted to touch if it was on her skin, her body under his mouth and fingers.

He was only ever touching Beckett.

He didn’t care how fucking impossible that was with his job. He was only ever touching Kate.

\-----

Everything had been made so clear.

What he was, what he was and wasn't willing to do, what came next. Already, Rick felt so much better with it decided in his head, how this would be.

He was definitely coming back to New York the second his mission was up. There'd be time for things, for staying in touch or quick weekends; she could come visit him if she wanted to see Ireland. There were ways, and he'd been thinking about this all week, but now it was just so clear.

He knew who he was. Not just what.

Gone was the old life, the kid who hadn't graduated West Point because his father had yanked him early, or the young adult who had craved the rigid discipline of the Army, or the guy who had re-upped after 9/11 with so much fury in his bones. He wasn't just a cog in the machine anymore; he had this. He had a mission for life and not just a legend in some country they shipped him to.

He wasn't JR Black of the Army, he wasn't Richard No Name and unknown, he was Agent Rick Castle.

Castle. That’s what he wanted to be, who he wanted to be.

It was so clear now.

Rick Castle left her sleeping in the bed and prowled the apartment, getting everything set up. They'd had a late brunch but a lot of sex, and so he thought maybe a fairly nominal dinner, something not too filling. He had more planned than just sex tonight.

He had a name, a purpose.

He ordered takeout from Remy's, thinking it would remind her of how much fun they'd had this week, and then he sat on her computer and did a few CIA searches on the secure network. He'd already modified so much of her internet security that it wasn't too risky, but he needed a few pieces for this to work.

It was a lot of set-up. He debated getting her a phone like his, but the truth of it was, he wouldn't be able to keep this burner on him. His entire New York ID would have to go into a storage locker adjacent to the airport, and it was incredibly dangerous - as well as breaking all the rules - to give her a permanent phone number for him that she might call and accidentally blow his cover.

Not that she would. Not that she wasn't smart enough to keep her mouth shut, but if he couldn't work her into his story in Ireland, then she absolutely couldn't call him.

But he could call her.

He would call her. And she'd have to know it was him. That's why he was doing this.

He wouldn't go through the office for his new New York ID. He didn't feel it was right, since this wasn't an official dossier. It wasn't even a true legend - it was just his actual, original name.

Rick Rodgers. That had been his mother's last name, had been his own until his father's program had erased those memories from his hard storage. Foreign languages and cultures and diplomatic relations and Krav Maga had crowded out those unusable facts, but something had remained. Something had floated to the surface during his week with her.

Rick Rodgers. Agent Castle. He wanted her to know; he wanted her to have something.

So he set it up himself. When he was here, walking around her city, when she had to introduce him to her colleagues, he was Rick Rodgers, Special Forces.

When she needed to call him, get in touch with him, he was her Agent Castle.

\-----

She was flat on her stomach asleep when he crept into the room, close to eight o'clock.

He leaned in over the bed, planting a fist in the mattress at her shoulder, brushing his free hand through the hair that had fallen into her eyes. She was tired, and he was waking her, but she'd be pissed at him if he didn't. He knew that much.

He lowered a kiss to the corner of her mouth, rubbed his thumb at her cheekbone to disturb her eye.

She came up slowly, blinking, not moving, her lips closing and then opening again. "Rick."

"Hey, dinner's here, if you want."

"Mm." She closed her eyes and turned her face into the mattress, sighing. He rubbed her back and then came down on his knees beside the bed so that he could be at her level.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he murmured. "Gotta keep up your strength, love. Got plans for you."

She turned her head and he saw first that wide grin on her face and then her eyes opening to him, beautiful smile. She nudged herself closer, nearly off the side, and she kissed his mouth for it.

"You have the best plans. What'd you order?"

"Remy's," he beamed.

She snorted and hooked her arm around his neck, used his resistance to drag herself off the mattress. He huffed and caught her as she collapsed against him, held her up against his chest, arms under her ass.

"I did good with Remy's?"

"You did good," she murmured, kissing him again. Sipping from him, shallow and light. "Need to brush my teeth, use the bathroom. Find some clothes. You go. Be there in a sec."

Was it bad that he wanted to watch?

Yeah, yeah, that was bad. Okay.

He stood up with her in his arms and she slid down his chest until her toes were on the floor, and she stretched. Her arms over her head, that smug humming sound in her throat. And then something must have pulled, because she jerked and came up short, clutched his arm as she put a fist into her side.

"You okay?"

"Um, just - yeah. Not used to this. Sex muscles are tight," she said, flashing him a grin.

He wasn't sure he was buying that, but he didn't know what to say. "Should I - be doing something?"

"I'll let you work out the soreness after dinner," she said, as if it was a promise. She grinned and lifted on her toes to press against him, a soft kiss under his eye that made his insides flutter like a hundred moths had taken up residence in his guts and were battering at him to get at her light.

"Go spread it out. Be right there."

He released her slowly, watched her saunter naked down the hall to the bathroom.

How gorgeous.

Those moths were still going crazy.

\-----

She was pressing her coughs into her elbow and turning her head away from him, but it wasn’t like he could miss that.

Damn, she sounded bad.

Beckett waved him off when it seemed to settle. “Stop looking at me like that. Fine. Always sounds worse at the end. Means I’m better.”

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, the television on and playing some kind of primetime movie - a lot of guns and shooting - and eating their Remy’s burgers slowly. With slow relish.

But maybe she was eating so slowly because she couldn’t breathe so well and had to keep stopping to catch her breath again.

“Did you get two orders of fries?” she rasped, shaking her head as she cleared her throat.

“Yeah, I just dumped them together,” he answered. He plucked another seasoned fry from the bag he’d left in the middle of the coffee table. Easier to share.

“Hm, you better not be eating more than your half,” she muttered.

He laughed and cast her a look, made all the funnier by the fact that she was fucking serious. “I won’t. Promise, baby.”

She was still grumbling at him, coughs bursting from her chest in dry rattles, but she wouldn’t let him do anything to help. He had tried to surreptitiously brush the inside of his wrist against her forehead to check her temperature, but she had scowled and batted him away.

Still, he was pretty sure she had a fever.

“Would you stop that?” she growled. “It’s fucking annoying. You said you don’t get sick anyway, so it’s not like you should be worried about catching it.”

He swiftly raised an eyebrow. “Beckett, I’d fuck you even if you were feverish. Give new meaning to the term hot.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed.

“Kate, love, I have tonight and tomorrow and then I’m gone. Undercover. In Ireland. So I’m not letting a little cough stop us from fucking our brains out, okay?”

She flashed him a smirk but she leaned her shoulder against his, as if his reassurance allowed her to let down her defenses a little more.

“Besides, those throat perles were so damn hot,” he growled. He put his mouth to her ear, nuzzling his nose through her hair. “And your skin is on fire, makes me hard for you.”

She caught her breath and slipped her hand into his lap, running the backs of her fingers against his cock. He hadn’t been hard, not really, but just that touch had him stiffening, going rigid under her experienced fingers.

“Mm, you are ready.”

“Eat your dinner,” he husked, closing his eyes. He still had half of his burger left and he’d bought them both milkshakes.

“I could be convinced to already be done,” she murmured, her mouth turning into his jaw. Her lips opened at his scruff and her breath washed over his skin. And in response, his balls contracted.

“No,” he gulped. “No. Because once I get you back in bed, I’m not letting you out to fucking graze. So eat your damn dinner, Beckett.”

She rubbed her knuckles over his cock like she was trying to convince him, but he only growled and gripped her hand.

She smiled slowly and dragged her teeth along his jaw, nipped his chin, before shaking him off and going back to her dinner.

Fuck. Fuck, at least she was eating.

\-----

“Do I need to brush my teeth?” he murmured against her mouth. She was stroking her tongue against his lips.

“No, fuck it,” she groaned. Her hands were under his shirt and so damn hot against his skin. Her body rocked in his lap, and the only thing he could think was, at least we’re on the couch, at least I didn’t make her do this on the floor.

Her hands rubbed up and down his back, gripping his sides like she wanted to mold him into some pliable thing. He really already was. “We have milkshakes left-”

“Fucking hell, shut up,” she growled, attacking his mouth again. Her kiss was fierce, even needy, her body grinding down against his.

“I like to talk,” he husked at her jaw, breaking from her mouth to lick down her neck. “What’re you even gonna do about it?”

“I’ll fucking punish you,” she snapped, grinding her crotch into his cock and making him gasp. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“This is not fucking punishment.”

“When I come, and you’re left hanging, you asshole, you’ll see what punishment really is.”

He bit her neck and she yelped, a breathless sound in the highest pitch, her knees squeezing his hips. He licked the teeth marks and came back to her ear. “Punishment is spanking, Beckett. Don’t you know anything?”

“I’ll fucking spank you,” she said heatedly. And then her knees were crushing his ribs, and her hands were clutching his sides so that her nails burned cresecent moons into his skin. “Fuck, is that what you want?”

“I’ve never been spanked,” he said honestly, caressing up her back and around to her breasts, light and teasing. “Only done the spanking.”

She stiffened. “I don’t want to-” She swallowed and buried her mouth into his shoulder, her body shuddering. He cupped her breasts and thumbed her nipples (turgid, he thought, the perfect word for how hard and tight a bud they were), and she let out a breathy sound against his chest.

“You don’t want what, baby?”

“I have no interest in being spanked,” she husked. But her voice broke.

“That’s fine.” He stroked her nipples, leaned in to kiss the delicate shell of her ear. His breath skirted her earlobe and she mewled, her hands moving hard and rough down into his pants and kneading whatever she could get a hold of.

“But you,” she rasped. Her voice sounded terrible and undeniably hot. “You. I could - would do that. I’d - really love to fucking make you take it. Could you come like that?”

“Beckett, your hands on me, I could come.”

She lifted her head, shoved his hands out from under her shirt, capturing him by the wrists. Her eyes were feral.

“Fucking get your clothes off, Richard. Lie down on the couch.”

Oh, fuck.


	17. Chapter 17

He stripped - fast - and when he was down to just his boxers, toeing out of them even as he took a second to breathe, he saw her stripping her t-shirt off over her head.

“You doing it naked?” he growled.

“Isn’t that usually how we do it?” she said, smirking back at him. There was some kind of hesitance in the back of her eyes that turned him on, fucking hell it turned him on. It turned him on to see that she didn’t know if she wanted to do this - spank him - but she was doing it anyway.

He palmed his cock and stroked lightly as he watched her slide out of her pajama shorts, no panties on, desperately wishing he’d thought to check before now.

“Fuck, you mean I could’ve been touching you this whole time?” he growled.

“You couldn’t feel how wet I was? grinding into your lap?” she said, shaking out her hair.

Gloriously naked. “No. Just - pants got in the way. Damn it.”

She hummed and slowly perused his body. “Feel good touching yourself?”

“What?” He glanced down to see his hand gripping his cock, sighed and released himself. “Didn’t mean to. Needed to relieve the damn pressure.”

She was just flat-out grinning now. Her breasts were high on her chest so that her nipples looked like fat pennies, swollen and brown. He reached for her hips and leaned forward to taste her nipples, but she caught his head in her hands and pushed him up.

“No, you don’t,” she said throatily. “I said. Lie down on the couch, Richard.”

He grinned back and jumped on the couch, bouncing on the cushions.

“No. On your stomach.” She came to his side and pushed on his shoulder. “So your cock is trapped below you.”

Right. Fuck. Because she was going to spank him.

“If you’re smart, you’ll push your erection between the cushions,” she said trailing her fingers down his collarbone and nudging.

He fell to one side, gracelessly, and then he turned to lie on his stomach, wriggling his hips until he managed to thrust his aching erection into the seam of the cushions.

He was already having trouble breathing when she climbed naked onto his back and dragged her cunt across his spine.

“Aw, fuck,” he groaned.

She pressed his head back down into the couch and laid over him, breasts to his back, her mouth at his ear. She bit his earlobe and sucked. “You stay down, soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“This is an interrogation,” she husked. “You can respond with name, rank, and serial number, but it’ll get you nowhere.”

“Fuck.”

She lifted up and leaned back, her hands splaying on his upper thighs and squeezing, her ass rocking against his tailbone, her fucking wet cunt burning at his lower spine.

“You’ve only done the spanking?”

He growled and clamped his teeth around the couch cushion, spat it back out when the taste hit his tongue.

“Who have you spanked, Richard?”

“Fucking hell, Beckett.”

She pinched his ass and his hips jumped. “Who?”

“You cannot possibly want to know,” he growled.

Her fingers pinched again and then trailed lightly over his ass cheek, scraping her nails in these barely there scratches that made his skin shiver. His balls were so fucking tight he wanted to cry.

“Who have you spanked before?”

“Just. Just a few.”

“All women?”

“Oh, hell.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmured. There was a hardness to her voice that made his hips squirm and his cock pulse, but she was playing with the cheeks of his ass and slowly gliding her cunt back and forth on his spine.

“Two women,” he got out. “Just - assets.”

“Assets?” she emphasized. Slowly one of her legs drew up to his shoulder and her foot tickled his ear. He sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and then she turned slowly around on his back.

He groaned into the couch, panting hard.

She planted her hands on his ass cheeks, facing away from him, and began to rock her cunt against the flare of his coccyx. “Assets who wanted to be spanked.”

“No, I-” He grunted at the sharp scent of her tang releasing to the air. “Fuck, Beckett. Fuck. I did it to them because they deserved it. They fuck - fucking needed to be fucking spanked and they liked it.”

“Were they better assets after you spanked them? Did you make them come that way?”

“Of course.”

“Of course to both?”

“Fucking hell, woman, get on with it.”

She touched her tongue to his ass and he hissed, jerking his hips against the couch. She nipped her teeth at the swell of his buttock and spoke to his ass. “I will do whatever the fuck I want to do, Richard, because you most certainly deserve it.”

He groaned, realized his body was trembling despite his best efforts. He gritted his teeth and pressed his forehead to the material, and she lifted up slightly and began to tease herself on his back once more.

His ass was bare and naked and exposed, abandoned, and then her palms came back to his cheeks and gripped him hard.

He cursed and bucked into the couch at the feel of her, but she was grinding on his back through her own selfish orgasm. She was kneading his ass cheeks as she came, little moans and whimpers just to rub it in, and he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He jerked his hips hard to get her moving, just do it, and she gasped. In the next moment, her palm met his ass in a stinging slap that cracked through the living room and echoed inside his head.

Rick moaned, hips bumping with a need he couldn’t contain, and she spanked him again.

\-----

His ass stung. He couldn’t stop his hips moving. His cock worked fiercely into the couch, but she never quite let him come.

She kneaded his cheeks with both hands, pressing into his spine with her wet cunt. He was having trouble getting a deep breath, his blood pounded so thickly through his body and burned at his backside, even his thighs were sensitive to the scratch of her nails.

And then her tongue came to his ass.

“Fuck!”

She hummed and licked the harsh red imprint of her palm, sucked on his skin. She trailed her wet tongue across to his other cheek, bit softly at his glute before she lifted up again. He was shuddering, fists pressing into the couch, and she rocked her sex against the flare of his tailbone, riding him.

“Kate,” he groaned. “Oh, hell, love.”

She slapped him, the sound bursting through his body. He couldn’t. He couldn’t any longer. He was going to come.

She spanked him hard and he roared, pushing off the couch cushions. She gripped him with her knees even as he came up, and before she could move, he was twisting around and pinning her against him.

“Ri-”

He humped into the seam of her pressed-together legs, quickly flipping them, forcing his body on top of hers. She groaned and pulled in her knee, tried to push off the couch and flip him back, but it only opened her sex to him.

He growled in triumph and thrust his cock inside her, slamming hard into the resistance he found. She mewled, and he reached down, tilted her hips to change the angle, pushed his burning erection deeper.

Kate cried out, triumph in her voice. He plowed into her, withdrew with a tight jerk, thrust home again. She rose to meet him, her leg hooked around his back now, their groins colliding with every thrust. She chanted yes yes yes as she sank her teeth into his jaw.

He stroked, she clung to his body, driving herself up into him. He slammed her into the couch with every downward plunge of his hips, heedless.

She was panting at his ear now, some kind of words, something; he couldn’t hear her now for the roar of noise in his head, the blood singing.

She palmed his back, pulling him tighter, dragged her nails down his spine to his ass. She gripped him hard and those raw places were electrified at her fierceness.

Rick lost it. He orgasmed with a howl ripped from his chest, humping deep and wild and crazed.

She spread the cheeks of his ass and pressed him against her, and then her climax contracted around him, whiting him out with the intensity.

\-----

“Good?” she husked. He felt her body vibrating under him and then immediately a cough trembled out of her.

“Kate,” he muttered, burying his face against her. She released his ass and skimmed her hands up his back, her fingers cold against his overheated skin, burning somehow. He shivered. “Sweetheart, I’ve never - it’s never been so-” He didn’t even have a voice for it, he didn’t even-

Her fingers danced at his spine and came up to his neck, teased at his hair. “The spanking gets you hot, baby?”

“The - no, I - you made me raw and I - the way touched your mouth on me and-” He gulped down his breath and pressed deeper into her, his cock still inside her body. Her muscles fluttered around him and he groaned, losing words. “I can’t even say. You’re just - that good. So good.”

“Yeah?” she hummed, sliding her arm around his neck. Her lips came up and touched his cheek, as lightly as she’d kissed his ass that first time, and he shuddered. “So it wasn’t the spanking-?”

“Yeah, no, maybe,” he sighed. “I just said it because I thought it was - different, but hell. Kate. Fuck, you’re just good. I can’t...”

She was smiling into his cheek. Her arm tightened at his neck. “I am that good. But you’re also that easy.”

“I’m easy?” he grunted. But he was smiling too. He should shift off of her, he should let her fucking breathe at least. “I’m easy for you, yeah. Easily worked up.”

“Mm, I can feel,” she murmured, lifting her hips into him. “And you never did that before? Never the spankee?”

He chuckled, his wits coming back to him a little more now, and he moved to one side, easing off her, out of her. She shivered and drew her leg down, turned with him. Her arm came into her chest, and his, and she pressed tighter into him.

He liked that. His mouth against her temple found the salt taste of her sweat. “Never on the receiving end, no. It was only ever a tool before. A way to get what I wanted. Not this.”

“You think I didn’t get what I wanted?” she murmured.

He grinned and brushed the hair back from her neck, skimming her ear. “I hope you did.”

“Mm, definitely did.” She reached down and patted his flank encouragingly. “This is one exquisite ass, soldier.”

He kissed her for that, but she was skimming her fingers over him now, over and over, and his skin was still sensitive enough that his balls tightened. “Kate,” he hissed.

“You like that more or less?’

“Than...”

“Than spanking.”

He growled and kissed her roughly. She moaned appreciation and gave back just as good. Her fingers traced designs over his ass as his cock grew heavy against her thighs.

“More-” she gasped, tearing away from his mouth. “Or less, Rick?”

“More.” He drew his arm around her waist and yanked her against him so that her stomach flattened his rising erection. “Oh, more. Like you more, so much more, baby. Let me back inside. Let me-”

She pushed on his shoulder and he obediently got on his back, dragging her over him. She lifted up, her breasts full moons over him, and she rubbed her cunt against his cock.

They groaned together, her eyes falling shut, his heart beating too hard.

He gripped her hips, trying to angle her over him, but she did it again, tormenting drag, the slick, heated glide of her sex. He shuddered as she shimmied, her breasts hanging ripely in front of him. He couldn’t help lifting his head and clamping down on her nipple, sucking her into his mouth.

She keened, her body trembling so that he felt it against his lips. She was going to fall; she couldn’t hold up against him, and he was so damn proud of it that he pushed upright and devoured her breast.

She whimpered and clutched his head against her, her hips working a wild thrust against his raging unsheathed cock. He felt her, hit or miss, sliding and grinding, and he worked his mouth around her nipple, tonguing her as she cried out. He flicked her against his teeth and cupped her other breast, kneading her flesh harshly, not letting up.

“Oh, fuck, please,” she gasped. “Please, I need - you have to - Rick.”

He twisted her nipple and bit-

She screamed as she orgasmed, her belly contracting, her wetness coating his still throbbing cock.

He sucked on the bitter tang of her nipple and pulled off, smacking wetly, and then he gripped her thigh. She was still shuddering through the end of her climax, but he nudged her leg wider and put his cock at that contracting mouth of her sex.

She moaned and thrust down on him, and he went in all the way, to the hilt, sunk.

\-----

Thrusting inside her, so deeply inside her, made his body crackle with energy.

She gasped every time he bottomed out, sucked in her breath when he withdrew. The rhythm of it was the thing, the rhythm. A metronome. His cock and thighs working, his chafed ass abrading the couch cushions, her hips rolling to meet his, her hand clawed in his shoulder, the clash of bodies.

She had an arm wound around his neck, tightly, so that his mouth was at the perfect place to suckle her jaw, leaving marks that would show for weeks. Both of them sitting up, his feet planted on the floor for leverage, his thrusts snapping to give her that extra kick.

She liked it. She gave these jittery sounds into his temple that made him crazy. Moans that broke off into gulping breaths, mewling that punctuated with a gasp, whimpers that growled. She had both knees planted into the couch at either side of his thighs and she just rolled and rolled her hips into him.

She said these half-conscious things into his hair: my breasts ache; oh, fuck, right-; your cock; how deep; taste you. She was sweat-foamed now, her back glistening, and he kept coasting his fingers in it, up and down, when he wasn’t guiding her hips harder or faster or whatever it was he needed at that second.

And then she began to tire, her body meeting his with a crash and unable to rise quite so easily. He felt her inside thighs shaking so badly that he had to cup the backs of her thighs and take some of her weight.

“Don’t stop,” she moaned. She bowed over him, her body a tight parenthesis, encasing the work of his cock. “Don’t - don’t - stop. I need...”

“You need?” he husked. His biceps quivered holding her up, doing the work of both of them. She had come twice already, just like this; he wanted to string her out forever.

“Need more,” she gulped. “More of this, don’t stop.”

He tried to shift a hand around to get at her clit, to give her more, but she knocked him away, tossing her head against his chest.

“Don’t let me come,” she moaned. “I don’t want it to - don’t let come, don’t let me, Rick, please-”

“I can do that,” he growled.

“Just keep - fuck,” she whispered. “Keep like this. On - on the edge. I’m so - so - exhausted I can’t-”

“I got you,” he hushed her. “I got you. We’ll fuck until it hurts, baby. My cock is so damn hard for you, all the time, that I could do this for days. For years. I could do this for years, Kate.”

She mewled, mouth opening at his chest, and he stroked inside her, slowly, in and out, not hurrying their rhythm.

She didn’t want it to end? Well, neither did he.

\-----

The fucking went in waves. The pleasure tightened and coiled and gripped them, and then he backed off, slid inside and stayed there, not moving. Her heart beating against his chest. Sweat sticky. And then he went much more slowly, so much it was agony, gritting his teeth against the drag of her cunt around his cock.

They were breathing hard. She was collapsed against him, barely moving. Moans. The stutter of her hips. Whimpers. The faint edge of pain.

When he had to simply stop, just stop, not move, fuck, hang on a second, just breathe together, hot, fast, when he had to stop like that, she always stroked her fingers at his neck with a limp hand. Smoothing the hair that was beginning to grow out from its army buzz, fingers petting him. Lashes against his neck where her head lay on his shoulder.

And then even that got to be too much. Even stopping didn’t help, and he was shaking all over and weak in the heart and he had stop.

He reached between them, gripped the base of his cock, and pulled out entirely. She shuddered as he left, mewling in protest, but he slid an arm under her knees and struggled to rise.

She wasn’t even able to push him away, stop him at all. She couldn’t lift her arms to hang on either, but he managed, wrapping one arm around her neck as well as another under her knees, her ass bumping his erection with every step.

“Hell,” she slurred, her cheek pressed to his chest.

“Mm, I’d have said heaven, baby.”

“Shut up,” she husked, a laugh somewhere in there that was nearly a cough. He was meaning to carry her back to the bedroom, but he paused instead at the bathroom door.

“Hey, love? You take baths, yeah?”

“What?” she mumbled.

“I want to - let’s fuck in the water. Like if we’d - if we were in Ireland together and swimming naked, we’d fuck, right? You’d let me-”

“Let you?” she muttered. “Baby, if we went skinny dipping in any country, I’d be jumping you the second I could wrap my legs around your waist. If I had anything left at all.”

“Yeah,” he growled, pressing his mouth to hers and sucking on her tongue. She moaned into his kiss and he shouldered his way into the bathroom, his cock already missing her. Missing her. Needing her wrapped around him again, smothering his erection in her heat. “You got just enough left, promise. Water will do most of the hard work.”

“You’d better be doing the hard work,” she said.

He stopped to kiss her, because he couldn’t keep his mouth from that mouth, but she slapped at him.

“Hurry up,” she hissed. “Get this fucking thing going, Richard.”

“You’ll let me fuck you in-”

“What did I say?” she snapped. She was wriggling to get down, but the moment he set her feet to the floor, she sagged. “Damn. Fuuuuck. Bath would be - good. Buoyant.”

He held her up as he opened the faucets in her tub.

“Plug,” she said shortly. “Love, you gotta push the plug into the drain.”

“Oh. Yeah.” His head was fuzzy because all he could think about was his cock. How hard he was, how the air circling his balls was nearly painful, how the brush of her body against his skin made his nerves dance.

“Fuck it,” she muttered. “I’m crawling in.”

He choked on a laugh as she fumbled over the side and into the deep tub. Her breasts were so full and heavy, her nipples swollen. He could see the marks of his teeth around them. Her head was back against the porcelain and her cheeks were flushed, her limbs loose and long. The water poured in around her, the level rising, tickling her ribs, swirling around her ankles.

Her eyes opened. “Get in here, you damn bastard.” But she was grinning, smiling so beautifully at him, and he climbed in over the side and into the water, smashing a knee into the porcelain.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmured, on his hands and knees above her. His cock was painfully aroused, and she reached out and wrapped her hand around him. He nearly came right there and then.

“You look pretty gorgeous yourself,” she smiled. “Now get moving, Rick. Need you back where you belong.”

\-----

"The water will get cold, won't it?"

"Eventually," she murmured. Her hands layered on top of his over her body. "You're keeping me warm plenty."

He nudged his nose into the side of her cheek, bumped his hips up so that his cock teased her sex in the same way. She gave that lovely sigh and squeezed his hands, lacing her fingers through his.

He wasn't even inside her, just brushing erotically over her as she sat in his lap. He had to bend at the knees to fit in the bottom of her tub, the water lapping at his ribs, but she was sprawled back against him, making lazy thrusts with her hips.

They’d both come the second he’d slid inside her, ruining all their best plans, but this now was almost better.

He liked this almost-not-touching touching. He loved how he encompassed her, his body framing hers. She was a long-limbed woman, but for all that she was narrow, small waist and thin hips and her leg bones barely more than sticks. She had muscle, at least, tendon and sinew that held her together and made her flex and shift over him, gave her the tone to keep from being painfully skinny.

He loved this place at her hip where the bone jutted out. She could rock against his erection between her legs and he could map the gorgeous lines of her body and not have to worry about her impatience. She liked the tease, and she was sensitive tonight, her sex contracting and her body shuddering with every touch he gave her.

He kissed the side of her neck and licked at the water beading on her skin, moved down to sip from the tidal pool in her collarbone. A cup, a perfect vessel, and he loved her body, fiercely loved her body - especially when it was pressed to his.

He dragged their clasped hands down to her belly, rubbing his thumbs under her breasts and along her ribs. She shivered and her head turned, her wet hair cool against his shoulder. Her forehead knocked against his jaw, her breathing a little faster. He wanted to make her come again, wanted complete control.

He pushed their tangled hands down to her sex and slipped his fingers into the water and then against her. He parted her lips and touched her folds, releasing her arousal to the bath. She moaned at the first touch, shied away when her own fingers found her clit. Her hips bumped back against him but he ignored it, focused instead on how she was already writhing.

Slowly. Oh, she could prolong it as well as he could. Hard rolls of her hips under their joined hands. Denying herself contact with his fingers. He was insistent, pressing into her sex, cupping her widely and then dragging a few fingers between her folds until she gasped.

Her body began to jump with every touch. She was so sensitive tonight, so responsive. Like sex had a cumulative effect on her, so that after their days and nights together, she was at her most aroused, her most needy. It was erotic.

"I want you to come for me," he husked at her ear. "Under my fingers. Our hands together. Just like this. Nothing else."

She whined and pressed her teeth into his neck, but her body arched when he passed over her sex. He found her clit and circled it, dipping back to her core for that slick arousal. It dissipated in the water, but it was enough to make her burn.

Kate cried out, and just like that her body stiffened impossibly in his arms, knees jerking up, and her orgasm rolled over her, on and on, in the clutch of something long-denied.

\-----

While she still was gripped in her own pleasure, he touched himself lightly and guided his erection between her legs. She gripped him as he pushed inside, like a mouth, rings of muscle that contracted, pulling and pushing. She cried out when he seated himself as deep as he could go from behind, and he withdrew his fingers from her folds to let the water roll against her.

She was shuddering still, in the heat of it, and now her body bowed forward so that the ends of her hair trailed in the water. When he was sure he was steady, he released her hip and dragged his hands up her back, fisted her hair in a knot to see the side of her face.

He could see only the red stain on her cheek and the side of her throat where the heat of the water and her coming had bloomed under her skin. He gripped her hair tighter and used his fistful to guide her completely upright, changing the angle.

She moaned.

He pressed a palm into her abs, kneading at her flesh until he was sure he could feel her womb, her womb and where it contracted around him, so that it was like massaging his own cock within the glove of her body.

She was shaking badly.

He rocked his palm into her abs, stretching his fingers through her pubic hair to split apart the lips of her sex. His cock was high and tight inside her, and he felt his own fumbling touch first before he found her clit.

She gripped the sides of the bathtub, limbs trembling, her breath steaming in the air, fast and shallow. He thrust up, using the heel of his hand to press on her womb, felt the way she tightened so impossibly around him. They were both shaking now. She was sitting up on him and using her feet against the bottom of the tub for leverage and grinding back down on him.

He was going to come. He had to. He was going to die.

He scratched his fingers at the place where her clit had retracted, overstimulated beyond coaxing, and she screamed, shuddering violently to one side. But she didn’t orgasm; she was holding it off like she was waiting for him.

He slowly pumped inside her, using the heel of his hand to compress her ab muscles to his cock inside her. Kate began to seize, crying out every time he thrust while she ground down, her knuckles blanched on the side of the tub. Just when he couldn't hang on any longer, she climaxed around his cock.

He orgasmed in a rush, all at once and with a speed he hadn't known before, a yell torn from his lungs so that he collapsed back, his skull against the side of the tub.

She collapsed onto him, and his cock slid out, spent, their arousal spilling into the bath and clouding the water. His head throbbed, his body throbbed, she was throbbing too.

\-----

Rick heaved her up from the sloped sides of the porcelain tub to stand, and she groaned and fell into him. But it was a flirty groan, if that was possible.

"Told you," he murmured, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "You're freezing."

"And I told you it's fucking worth it," she mumbled back, no heat even in her voice.

They were out of the cold water but there was still a draft of air circulating through the bathroom; he'd forgotten to close the door probably. When would he learn?

"Fucking worth it?" he smiled, laughing at his own joke.

She snorted and swayed against him, apparently trying to reclaim her independence but unable. He swiped open the shower curtain and got out first, turned to help her over the high side of the clawfoot tub. She stumbled as she came, and he caught her, enjoying the wet press of their bodies.

"Probably the exact wrong time for this," he said, gathering her soaked hair off her back and lifting it to squeeze the ends over the tub. She clutched his hips and tilted her head to give him enough rope, and then he draped her hair over her shoulder.

"Exact wrong time for what?"

"For declarations.”

She froze.

“I - uh - I figured - you know, this is so good. So much chemistry, right?"

She narrowed her eyes at him as she grabbed a towel, pressing it against her face and drying the water that still clung to her skin in wonderful, blue drops. "Chemistry. Uh-huh."

"No?"

"Of course," she said. Her voice was hesitant though. Not the snark he'd expected, maybe she was too thoroughly fucked for that.

But there was wariness.

Damn, he had been hoping for too thoroughly fucked for the wariness too.

"I'm just saying there's a lot of fucking chemistry," he said, growling at her. "Don't you think? I've never had this much - well, fun with it?"

"Anytime you want more, soldier, you know where to find me." She smirked at him and patted his chest, tried to push off from him.

But her knees wouldn’t hold. He caught her and held her roughly - she responded well to rough - and he wrapped the towel around her.

“I do want more,” he told her, pushing a kiss against her mouth before she could grow wary again. He assaulted her thoroughly and when he pulled back, all of that fucked-silly exhaustion had crept into her face again. “You better bet I’m coming back for another spanking.”

It hit exactly the right note. She laughed, dismissing whatever serious threat was in his promise, and he let her wobble away from him.

He’d have to explain a few things, but she’d already left the door open.

\-----

With his body pressed over hers and steaming, his chest heaving so that he felt his ribs catching at hers where he laid on top of her, Rick finally thought, hoped, she'd take it as a promise. His promise. All he could offer.

She was drifting. He had a narrow window here before she was truly asleep, but he rocked his hips into her to remind her of where he was, who was still pushed inside her.

Kate moaned, her leg dropped from around his waist, her heart thundering in the pulse at her neck. He kissed that spot where the blood seemed to rush-rush, and then he nudged his groin against hers once more.

She trembled with that ripple of an aftershock, and he tried to tally in his head how many for her now tonight, but it was a lot.

Surely now he could demand things.

He pressed his mouth to her jaw and lightly kissed her, feeling her hands flatten on his back as her body arched.

Still sensitive. Too much maybe. He could work with that.

"When I'm gone," he murmured over her, "when I'm in Ireland and you're here in bed, will you touch yourself and think about how I touch you?"

She gasped, her body contracting around him, fluttering aftershocks.

"Will you?" he hummed. He liked that, whatever this was that was taking her by surprise. "Have I given you enough sexual fantasy fodder for months, baby?"

"Months," she whispered. "Hell. Years."

"Mm, good," he grinned. His teeth snagged her earlobe. "I'm gonna lie in bed and think of you touching me. Think of you sitting in my lap and your hands on me and your body moving against mine. So fucking hot. Spanking me because you thought it might be fun."

"Fuck," she muttered, her hips bucking.

"Are you going to think about it too?"

"Fuck." She was clenching around him, her hands pressing into his back as she rocked up.

"Are you going to imagine it, and touch yourself, and remember how damn hot this is?"

"Yeah," she said roughly, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Will your body arch like this?"

"Prob-probably."

"Touching your breasts-”

“Fuck.”

“Twisting your nipples,” he breathed. She was writhing weakly under him now. “You’re so rough with yourself, love.”

“Yeah,” she got out, barely a sound at all. Her body was contracting, clutching at him so hard.

“And you’ll come,” he husked. “Thinking about me. Inside you. Everywhere.”

“Rick!” She splintered apart just that fast, vibrating under him so that it trembled in his balls and made his teeth clench to feel her. The orgasm was quick and dirty, and then she was moaning in his ear, pornographic sounds, coming down from her high.

She was fading fast, her eyelids drooping.

“I want to hear it,” he growled into her neck. “I want to call you one night, and have you answer me, and talk you into it. I want to hear you come apart for me on the other end of the line.”

“Every damn time,” she moaned.

“Yes,” he exulted, halfway there, almost there. He could make her keep him, a place for him. “Every time I touch myself, I’ll be thinking about you - how hot this feels, hot tight your cunt is, how explosive we are together.”

“Fuck,” she panted. Her hands were hard fists in his back. “Not again, not again.”

She was clenching around him again. He felt his cock thickening with fierce joy to feel it, feel just how damn much she wanted him too. “Again, every time, just like this. This is what I’ll think about. And I’ll call you, love, to hear your voice. Hear the dirty things you want to do to me.”

“Yes,” she moaned, sharp again, her body rising up under his. “So many things. Rick, please.”

“Will you call me?”

“Call you what.”

“I have a phone number. I made a special one just for you. You call and ask for - for Agent Castle. And I’ll get the message and I will call you the moment it’s safe. Ask for Agent Castle, say you need Agent Castle. That’s me.”

“Castle?” she murmured, her eyes opening. Confusion swamped her dark irises, confusion swirling with lust.

“Rick Castle,” he whispered. “It’s my name. Now fuck me, Kate.”

He rolled over and dragged her on top of him, thrust his hips to remind her.

She didn’t even hesitate.


	18. Chapter 18

Kate Beckett stood at odds in her own living room, watching the man she'd never intended to stay finally leave.

He had a phone. And nothing else. The clothes on his back. That coat he'd bought on her advice. That stupid half-shaggy buzzed cut leftover from his Army service, a little floppy at his forehead and fuzzy at his nape, and she knew how it felt under her fingers.

He gave her a lopsided grin and it tugged in her guts. Tugged a place between her legs where his stupid head had been, intimately, jaws unshaven and tongue so talented. She was worked up just standing here. When he slipped his phone into his cargo pocket, she noticed the bulge.

Not the only one worked up.

She had all her gear on, straight to work. She'd brought it home instead of changing in the locker rooms on Friday, anxious to get home. Her mother's ring was tucked under her shirt and she had, she thought, successfully kept it out of the way.

When he approached her where she stood before the door, his grin wasn't quite as lazy as he was trying to make it out to be. His hands framed her hips. He tugged on her turtleneck inside the open NYPD coat and she felt him fumbling for her bulletproof vest - checking she’d worn it.

"Good girl," he murmured, right before he kissed her and smothered her indignation with the hot work of his tongue.

Damn, he tasted good. He felt good, strong and hard, his mouth unforgiving and taking no prisoners and all of those male things she unconsciously adopted on the job. But here, oh God, here he seduced her into being herself.

"Good hunting, love," he whispered against her jaw.

She pulled back. "Good hunting? Is that what your kind says?"

"My kind?" he chuckled. His fingers tugged and nudged at her vest as if he thought she'd gotten it crooked. "Spies, you mean?"

Just him saying it out loud sent a shiver through her which she barely managed to repress. So far he hadn't seemed to catch on just how hot that was. She'd landed a spy. Holy shit, she had slept with a covert agent who seemed damn intent on coming back and reclaiming all his hard-won territory in six months or a year or however fucking long it took to take down an arms smuggler in Ireland.

"Spies, I mean," she murmured, letting her lips quirk. "Good hunting, Richard." Castle, she thought, and the name he'd told her echoed strangely in her head.

The name he'd invented (for her sake, so she could call him).

His fingers stopped tugging. He stepped back with that same crooked smile that didn't quite reach. She didn't quite want him to leave either, so at least he looked just as reluctant. (She wasn’t really reluctant. Just settling into the knowledge that fun time was over; back to real life. That was all.)

He stepped back in and took a brutal kiss from her, fingers tightening at the knot of her hair and torquing her head where he wanted her. She fought back, stepping on his steel-toed boots to gain height, going up on her toes in her own uniform boots, sucking on his tongue as he plundered. Took. Ravaged. All those stupid pirates on the seven seas romance novel words that she hated but which came a whole easier than the truth.

(She wanted him. To stay. To fuck her. To be here. To help. To come back.)

"Can I call you when I get settled?" he husked.

Monday morning and his flight was fucking early and she had to be at work in four hours and the sun wasn't even up and he was half-leaning back for her bedroom, stroking her throat with his thumb.

"Call?" she said faintly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She was too stunned to know what she should have said, but now that their bodies were pressed together again, now that she felt the cornered-hard-edge of his phone at her thigh and something much bigger and better cradled between her thighs, she realized.

She snaked her hand to his pants, knuckled his groin just for the way he grunted, and then hooked her fingers in his cargo pocket. Probed until she found the real bulge she’d noticed.

"You stole my underwear," she hissed.

"You left them out," he croaked. He looked ready to fuck his mission and her in one, and she nudged him away from her with a shoulder, releasing his pocket.

And her claim on her panties. "Which ones?"

He grinned like a wolf. "Those pretty purple ones."

"And what else," she said, lifting an eyebrow. She swiped at his leg where the pocket bulged with phone and her purple panties (her favorite pair but somehow more intensely favorite in his pocket, close to his body heat).

"Um."

"Richard."

His ears went pink like they had outside the Jewish deli when he'd admitted to his paranoia. His craft she realized now. Not paranoid. Healthy spy craft. Damn.

"I took one of your - uh - I took a photo."

She tilted her head.

He slowly reached into his pocket like a shamed little boy confessing, and he withdrew a curled-edges photograph from a train ride she barely remembered.

She'd been twenty or so, heading back into the city from some place in Pennsylvania with her dad. Before it had gotten as bad as it had. The last of his good days, before she knew what he'd been doing all night. He'd clicked the camera and she'd turned in surprise and he'd said landscape, and it had been true, the vista before the train window had been amazing.

He'd given her those photos he'd had made at the drug store and she'd never done anything with them. It was only the side of her face, mostly her hair in a wave and the old-fashioned camera she'd been using at the time, images collected on black and white that she still had somewhere, and the wide window of the train, the blur of trees morphing into towns outside. Her fingers against the glass, splayed.

She handed the photo back.

It showed nothing of her but a woman on a train. It meant - everything.

More than it should.

"You need to go," she choked out.

He nodded and tucked the photo carefully back into his pocket, tapped the flap as if to be sure it was closed. "You're right. Flight won't wait for me."

Not what she'd meant but that was fine.

He leaned in and his fingers caressed her throat, up to her jaw. "Let me call you," he whispered, and kissed her before she could say yes or no.

His kiss was soft and aching and it - more than anything - made her want him.

He left while her eyes were still closed.

\-----

She had four hours before roll call at the Twelfth, and she was already dressed and geared up and alone in her apartment. (Strange how two weeks ago the vest and the utility belt had begun to weigh so heavily they'd felt like burdens each morning and now they felt like armor, steel plating, guards over her heart and the new thing that struggled there, like a seed in dark soil).

She opened the refrigerator and scanned the interior, surprised at all the selection. Fruit from the corner grocery that he had picked up on every walk home, but which they had never managed to finish: half-empty bag of grapes, a pile of strawberries, one last full pint of blueberries because he ate them like candy, (had eaten them), a lone apple. And the vegetables leftover from the soup he'd attempted the second time around (which they had dumped in favor of fucking on her counter, and then the table, and then in her bathroom on the way to the shower and finally in her bed where he'd woken her with blueberries or grapes one and then they'd fucked again while she'd been ravenous the whole time but for what? who?).

Lots of styrofoam, she noted, taking out the apple and rubbing it on her pant leg. Remy's, mostly, turkey burgers and BBQ ribs and that whiskey chicken thing she'd only been able to eat half of before exhaustion had wound her down. The fridge even held three milkshakes they hadn't gotten around to. Plus a cupcake in its box on the counter.

She bit into the apple and let the fridge door fall shut. Dinner was evident, though lunch would be nonexistent or grabbed on the way to a call, as usual.

In four hours. Was he on the subway right now? How did he do that and avoid the multiple surveillance cameras, the sheer mass of people who would see him? She had to admit he'd been adept at playing down his masculinity, his size, the strength inherent in his arms and hands and shoulders. He dressed to camouflage his capability, and she had actually thought him skinny when he'd started following her on the subway.

(Would he follow someone else? No, no he had to leave on mission. Ireland. He'd pushed off his Sunday night flight to leave early this morning; she had known he was supposed to leave, and he hadn't known she'd known that, and he absolutely had to leave.)

(Right?)

A spy.

A spy knew things. Richard Castle knew things. He knew how to use his fingers and his mouth and his damn crooked smile to steal panties and photographs and even these four hours before work where she was just daydreaming about those fingers and mouth and smile.

Holy shit, she was worthless.

Beckett chucked the apple towards the trash can and grabbed her keys. Her gun was in lock-up at the Twelfth, and she should have changed clothes there too; she knew better. Going out in full uniform in December without her weapon in its holster. Stupid.

The vest was reassuringly snug.

She could go into the Twelfth now. Even though she had hours to kill. Because she had hours. It was always open, home away from - whatever this was.

She locked her door after her and set off down the stairs, couldn't help comparing her trek to his, what steps he might be descending now to what lonesome contact or private air strip or hell, maybe just the regular fucking airport. She had no idea. He hadn't mentioned how he was getting to Ireland.

(He would fondle her panties in his pocket as the plane took off. He would touch them and want to touch himself and he would think about her and her body and how she'd taken a couple of throat perles and swallowed him down and how he'd been unable to control himself for once in his damn life, and he would stroke the photo he'd stolen of her - sort of with her permission - and he would touch the side of her face in the image and imagine her and him and the week they'd had, and that was surely something that would last. Burned into his brain as it was seared into hers and he'd have those reminders and come back some day and want it all over again. And what would she say, do, where would she be? Another subway ride home, angry and disappointed, fraught with all the things she couldn't and hadn't yet accomplished, and he'd step up at her back and press his body to hers and say welcome home.)

Beckett stumbled on the sidewalk and quickly caught herself, shook her head. Obviously the cough medicine she'd taken last night was still in her system. She had four hours to get her head right, clear her mind. She should use the workout room at the Twelfth.

And. She might sneak down to Archives and see if the overnight guy would let her in. Sometimes the sergeant who was sweet on her would let her walk behind the gate and sit on the edge of his desk where the bulletproof glass made her outline too wavy to recognize and he would talk until he got busy and shooed her away and she would slip through the stacks and find her mother's case and touch the box and dare to open it.

This time she would take photos on her phone.

She should have taken photos of him. Proof he wasn't a mirage. Proof his cock was as huge as she remembered, which seemed ridiculous even now ( no one had something that large between their legs, no one could function, holy shit, even if it was smaller when it wasn't happy to see her, but wasn't it always happy to see her?) but if she'd taken a photo-

Her subway line was just screaming up when she stepped to the platform and she had to run to make it.

And she was so surprised he wasn't on the car that she had to grab the pole to keep her balance.

He was going to Ireland.

\-----

She had a missed call on her phone.

Her surprise was so sudden and swamping that she sat back down on the locker room bench and stared at it. Unknown, blocked number.

Had he called her? It was only - okay she had no clue what time it was in Ireland but she'd just finished her workout after shift and she couldn't fathom it. Maybe it had been one of the bars her dad frequented. (Bars weren't unlisted, Beckett.) Maybe it had been the plumber the landlord had been promising. (Right. The landlord was never going to fix the pipes because fixing the pipes meant exposing the studs and replacing them with copper pipes which were fucking expensive. He'd rather deal with the water damage from a slow leak.)

She shoved her phone back into her bag and yanked out the rubber band instead, scraped her wet hair back into a pony tail. She had already locked up her gun in its holster upstairs in the vault, and all she had to do now was secure her vest and the clean uniform, take home the dirty one, and go.

Just go.

She had photos of her mother's autopsy file on her phone.

All she had to do was go.

Beckett laced her converse, pulled the tongues out to keep the shoes from rubbing during her walk home, and then shouldered her bag. She adjusted the strap across her chest and patted the pocket where her phone rested, reassuring herself that it was still there.

She would recreate the autopsy file. That would be-

A good first step.

And okay, yes, her stomach churned at the thought. She had images behind her eyelids that she couldn't escape, photos from the crime scene technician that she'd paged through as she'd gone for the more aloof, distanced autopsy report.

She had seen a few close up photos of her mother's wounds. Her mother's wounds. Oh, God. Oh, God, this was too much. She had photos on her phone of her mother's violent and terrible-

Her phone buzzed. She jerked and clapped her hand over the pocket, managed to keep from stumbling outside the precinct in front of everyone. She kept her palm to the pocket as if to quiet it, and she hurried past the perimeter of the door cameras before slipping her phone out.

(Why? Did it matter if cameras recorded her answering a phone? She'd already let slip the phone had alerted her by practically falling on her face; it wasn't like someone couldn't connect his call with her reaction-)

Unknown number.

She stared at it for too long, undecided, and it went to voicemail. But no message was left. No contact made.

Telemarketer.

He wasn't calling her. That was so supremely irrational. He had said when he was settled which was guy speak for - (spy guy speak for) - later, babe - which meant never. Settled could be anything. Settled could be when he was finished with the whole damn deep cover mission. Settled had very carefully not been tonight.

She knew better.

And parsing his statement for meaning was pathetic.

She had this damn autopsy file to recreate first. She needed to find a way to connect her phone to her computer and enlarge the photos so she could see the finer details, the things no one had bothered to study. She was the daughter; she would know if something was - was off.

Beckett took the steps down into the subway and waited on the platform with the dinner crowd; there was never a time in the city where no one was waiting for a subway line, where no one was crowding Time Square or hurrying one place or another.

She was never alone here.

This was her parents’ city. She had been that teenager slouched against the subway tile waiting for the line that would take her out, away from home, into a borough she and her friends were exploring, testing their limits. She had been that little girl holding her father’s hand, stern injunctions to hold on to me, and being so pleased when the doors had opened and she had stepped on without tripping or rushing, like a native.

Kate settled in a seat at the back, the stale scent of trapped body odor reminding her, suddenly, of him.

Not that he smelled like the subway, but it was the musk of his body over hers-

She had no cell service in the subway tunnels.

Beckett rubbed the back of her neck, still damp where her wet hair rested, and she pulled the rubber band out to redo it. She put it in a knot instead and circled her arms around her bag in her lap, studied the few people in her car.

The little girl and her father, the cluster of teenagers, an older man who had been in the first seat when they’d gotten on - she remembered Castle’s way of making up stories about people, how he had given them ‘legends’ - lives - how he knew where they were going based on the way they dressed or how they talked.

She studied, but she saw people. Not stories. She saw exhaustion and nervous determination and irritation. She saw alcoholism on the elderly man, the wobble of his hands and the brown bag between his feet, and maybe that was a story.

A story she didn’t know the end to.

She had no cell service in the tunnels, but she slid out her phone and checked again.

Twenty-one images. There were twenty-one photos on her phone’s limited memory, the max, and she’d gotten almost all of the coroner’s report, though none of the secondary findings.

And three missed calls.

She didn’t want to be here.

She wanted to be anywhere but here.

This life.

\-----

After slogging through the subway station and up to the street, her NYPD coat overheating her, sweat sticking to the places where her hair had already made damp, she felt like she needed another shower.

She debated a bath.

She had the photos on her phone but-

Bath. Definitely. She deserved it. She’d had a cold last week and she’d indulged a little more than she should have, but she’d had zero time to herself. A glass of wine, maybe-

No.

Not today. Never drink to feel better; drink to feel even better.

She was not yet at even better. A hot bath and a book, stop thinking about the photos on her phone that she needed to figure out how to upload to even begin this thing. Uploading meant a cord she probably didn’t have, a lot of poorly-worded directions from some dubious internet site that would only infect her computer with a virus.

Bath was in order.

She opened the hot faucet as wide as it would go - the damn pipes; she had learned the tricks for this place - and then she began shedding her shell. The NYPD coat, the heavy winter one that they wouldn’t replace short of toxic spillage, she carried back out into the living room and hung in the closet where it belonged.

The rest she peeled off her body one by one wherever she happened to be, steadfastly ignoring the scatter of clothing through her apartment. (He had taken her purple underwear with him.) She stepped out of the serviceable black lycra bikini panties and dropped them on the floor beside her bed, and then she bent down and snagged the first book she found.

(The bed still smelled like him. Oh God.) She hurried back down the hall, shivering, and opened the bathroom door, stepped inside, through the rising steam. She shut the door to keep in the ambient heat, carried the book to the tub and checked the water level.

Almost perfect and the temperature was edging towards scalding, so she flipped off the hot water faucet and turned on the cold. As usual, the water that came out wasn’t tap cold but a shade better than lukewarm, and she let it run as she stepped into the bath.

Fuck, her body ached.

She had bruises on top of bruises, not to mention her shoulder was black and blue from the bullet graze. The bandage had long since come off - she couldn’t stand the way it itched, and Rick was active, and it just hadn’t mattered after an orgasm or two - but now she could see the place where the butterfly tape had irritated her skin and the wound needed to be cleaned. Not to mention how raw her inside thighs were.

She hissed as the water burned between her legs, but she resolutely submerged her whole body up to her neck.

She tilted her head back against the porcelain, reminding herself of how good it had been getting to this battered state, and damn had it been good. With her eyes closed, the water licked her collarbones and she could recall the heat of him at her back as they stood before the bathroom mirror, his hands exploring, not claiming so much as appreciating. His voice in her ear as he spoke dirty, possessive things straight to her heart, an arrow to her cunt.

He had fucked her twice standing up in front of the mirror. She had gripped the back of his neck and tried to torque her body into his and away from his at the same time, it had been that intense.

Oh, hell.

Kate opened her eyes, ran a wet hand down her face and stared up at the ceiling. She turned her head and reached for the book she’d left on the little candle stand beside the tub, tugging it into her.

Kafka’s Castle.

He’d named himself after the damn book. She had never been able to get past the endless absurd bureaucracy that Kafka took such pains to detail. Castle had found something kin in it, had discovered something of himself in these pages.

She was getting the book wet, but she opened it anyway, started it from the beginning.

Better than replaying all the places and times and positions they’d had sex.

(Who was she kidding? It wasn’t better, it was just marginally less pathetic.)

There's no quiet place here on earth for our love, not in the village and not anywhere else, so I picture a grave, deep and narrow, in which we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you, and you would bury your face in me, and no one would ever see us.

\-----

She wrapped the robe tighter, tying off the belt, and then nudged the heat up on the thermostat, just until she heard the radiator clatter as it started up. She rubbed her arms briskly, gathered another blanket from the back of the couch and drew it around her shoulders ( you look like a little kid playing at Superman).

She moved finally into her cramped office space and booted up her iMac, patting its blue shell as she sank into the desk chair. She pulled one knee up and rested her chin on it, watched the grey screen as it cycled through.

There was an ache behind one eye that wouldn’t quit. She had taken three doses of pain reliever already today - for the shoulder and the bruised hips and the swollen feeling between her legs - and she probably should leave it for now.

(She liked feeling swollen. She reveled in the factuality of bruises and a raw cunt, the actuality of her condition which said it wasn’t only in her head.)

The computer made that welcoming noise and she reached reluctantly, determinedly for her phone.

She had a text message waiting. Blocked number. Sent an hour ago while she was in the bath, procrastinating about the photos - or merely building her defenses.

Check your email.

It was him. No one else gave such haughty commands without a trace of doubt that they would be followed.

For a moment, she almost considered disobeying. But her cunt still tingled every time she shifted in the chair and he had stolen her panties for nefarious reasons. Best to find out sooner rather than later.

Beckett opened her browser and waited for it load, but the connection was lightning fast, much faster than it’d been last week. Before Richard had been messing around with her computer ( I have to do a couple of deep backgrounds, baby).

She logged into her email and there was a message in her inbox with a string of random keystrokes (letters, numbers, symbols) as the return address. Every instinct in her as a cop and a fairly adept computer user told her it was spam, but she opened it anyway. (She had a Mac, and Richard had installed shit on here she knew he had, and what kind of virus could get through all that?)

The email had a link, and only a link, in the body of the message.

And she clicked it. Didn’t even hesitate.

It popped open a new window and cycled through a grey screen with tabs along the top, greyed out tabs, and for an instant, she thought she’d been phished.

And then a box dropped down from one of the tabs, giving her a black screen, a stilted image with artifacts that made it blocky, and then the black screen again. This time with an icon highlighted in a small box at the bottom of the black box and-

“Hey, baby, finally.”

Her jaw dropped. The green light was on at the top of her camera and she had no control over her mouse any longer-

And Richard Castle’s face was coming in sharp and clear over a video link on her fucking computer.

“Huh. I think there’s something wrong. Hang on, love, I’m getting a frozen image and no audio-” He was leaning forward into view and she could see the dingy wood paneling behind him, the flat matte of a sleeping bag.

“No, I-” She had to clear her throat and sit up straight, leaning into the computer. She could see herself in the small box at the bottom, what she looked like from his view of things. “I’m here,” she said faintly.

His head popped up. His smile as white as the sun. “You’re here.” He sank back and the picture shifted with him and now she saw he was using a laptop (fuck, those laptops could do this?) and leaning back against the sleeping bag. “And I’m here. We’re both here.”

“You - how did you-”

“It’s an Army link,” he said, shrugging, but his eyes darted away from the screen. “My mates are coming in.”

“It’s late,” she got out.

He glanced back at her, a frown creasing his forehead. “I tried earlier, baby, but you didn’t answer, and I couldn’t figure out when your shift ended.” He swallowed and his eyes darted away again and now she could hear the guys coming into the place - wherever he was holed up in Ireland - the rowdy drunk guys getting home from the bar. “I know waitressing makes you tired.”

His eyes urged hers. She glanced behind her, jumped up, tossed her NYPD turtleneck onto the couch and out of view. Just in case. She sank back into the seat, fast, and settled before the screen as she had been, her knee up and an arm hooked around it.

“I meant for you,” she said finally, breathless, heart rushing. “What’s the time difference? You’re ahead, I know-”

“Five hours,” he said quickly. And then gave her a slow nod of his head as if to say that was true. Oh, he was using her as cover; he’d said something about that, his fake American girlfriend, something, but that meant he was telling them she was in New York. Or a city in a similar time zone. Because five hours was correct.

“Then it’s three in the morning there,” she said. “They’re just getting home?”

“Yeah, but they’re practically passed out.” He shifted and she saw a hand flop in his direction which he batted away. “Hey, piss off. I’m talking to my girl.”

A drunk shout, someone calling him Mikey.

A strange ripple went through her as Mikey’s face came over Castle’s own, leering at the camera - at her, in her silk robe and nothing else, the blanket hooked awkwardly over the back of the chair. She drew it down into her lap but she raised an eyebrow at ‘Mikey’, her boyfriend who was running with an arms dealer.

A couple of guys crowded in at the screen, also leering, jeering at them. “Rufus, sod off. Oi. Get.”

He was shoved away, Castle grumbling, shouting back at the other guys, his Michael Leary accent impeccable.

Accent. Wow.

“Oi, shut yer hole. Let me talk to my girl.... no, you are. No, you are. Don’t make me come-” And then he lunged up, the laptop left on his pitiful black sleeping bag and a tussle half in view and half out before something sharp was said and something got cracked and then Richard was back.

Hair mussed, shirt crooked, but grinning like the devil at her. “Hey, love. You and me now, sweetheart.”

But it felt like it was him and her and this other guy - this guy who slept on a sleeping bag in some asshole’s apartment, Mikey and company dragging home at three in the morning after pub hopping all night.

“You didn’t go out?” she murmured, not sure who she was talking to.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, grinning. And then his face changed. Something both infinitely softer, but also harder. “I needed the chance to touch base with local.” A pursing of his lips, like she had provided the ideal excuse, and she had basically but-

“Who - who are you staying with?”

“Aw, that’s Mikey and his crew. They might get me some work. Said I have to stick it out with them and prove myself first. I’ll go out tomorrow, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

“Drinking,” she said, chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“Baby,” he murmured, all manner of reassurance in his voice, both cover and real.

She thought it was real. I can handle this. He was a fucking covert agent, of course he wasn’t going to drink himself blind.

“I know, because of your dad, you’re worried,” he said quickly, though his eyes said forgive me. “I told the guys. They get it. They think I’m whipped, but Mikey said he’d make ‘em go easy on me. But you know I can handle my liquor.” His fingers pressed hard against his chest like it was some kind of sign, and the way he’d emphasized those words as he’d said them.

It was all code and double talk. She felt - lost.

And then his face changed again and that hardness slid through, and somehow she was seeing that eager soldier who had followed her onto the subway and carried her father down the hall to his room and untied his shoes.

“Kate, sweetheart, it doesn’t work on me.” His fingers came out and touched the screen, going dark where the camera couldn’t follow. She lifted her hand and couldn’t help reaching back, unsurprised when the screen was cold and faintly staticky.

“You’re more than them,” she said, the words coming out of her mouth in something like certainty. “You’re more.”

“They’re gone,” he murmured. “You don’t have to-”

“It’s not pretend,” she sighed, tilting her cheek to her drawn up knee. Tracing his features with her eyes. “It’s not a lie.”

He swallowed and nodded and his head dipped. “I - needed to hear that.” His eyes flicked up to the screen - to hers - hesitant, shy. Shy? “Can I see you?”

“You are seeing me.”

“Will you - will you show me what I’m missing? Cause, baby, I am really missing it.”

She laughed, biting her thumb as her eyes met his across five hours of future time and space. “Maybe you should find a bathroom, hotshot.”

He grinned, feral and intense, and she knew she’d been right all along.

He had been thinking about her for miles.

\-----

While he got adjusted to the grimy tile floor - she could see how dirty it was from the poor quality of the laptop camera so she knew it was bad - Beckett closed her blinds and turned off the overhead light.

"Wait," he said from the computer. "Kate?"

She came back. "Does that make it too dark?" she asked. She glanced at the tiny box at the bottom that showed what it must look like to him, but she couldn't tell.

"Can't see you at all, sweetheart."

"Is it enough with the lamp?" She reached to the desk and clicked it on. "It's just so bright with the overhead."

"Feels naughty?"

She laughed, glanced at him from the side of her eyes. He had spread a ratty towel in the bathtub and was climbing in, porcelain and clawfoot and really rather beautiful for such a dismal-looking place. The laptop gave her an unsteady angle as he climbed.

"Um, feels something," she admitted. "Do you need the light?"

"I don't know. Sit back a little and let me see what I can see."

Was she really letting this man order her around like a 1-900 operator? Well, and if so, didn't that mean she was really the one in control?

Kate sat back in the desk chair and lifted an eyebrow.

"No good, baby. Do you mind doing this with the lights on?"

A weird sensation chased down her spine, but instead of replying (her voice would crack, she knew it), she got back up and flipped the overhead on again. When she came back to the computer, she draped the blanket over the chair because - well, fuck - because she could wash the blanket.

She sat cross-legged in the chair and placed her hands on her knees, expectant, a little oddly anxious, and studied him on the other side of the world.

His hair had been styled - the floppish part was a little spiky with gel. She wanted to touch it. Was it hard and crunchy? "Who did your hair?"

"Huh?" His eyes were devouring her and it took him a moment to focus. When he did, his smile was that of the predator once more, but he lifted a hand to his head and crushed the spikes with his palm. "You like? I did it in the terminal at LAX."

"You went through LAX." She could imagine it. "As - as this?"

"After a military flight from New York, yeah. Regular guy, then. I got a locker in Newark with all of my Castle stuff, so that coat is safe. Promise."

She shook her head, amused by their conversation, by his change, but confused too - the video conferencing, the way sometimes it was Rick looking back at her and sometimes - whoever this was. And what were they doing, small talk while he unbuttoned his pants?

She swallowed hard. Watched his fingers as he fumbled one-handed at his crotch.

"Um. Mikey?"

He was watching her too. Lips quirked, but something in his eyes was harder when she'd called his undercover name. "Naw, sweetheart. Not that, not him. You and me, Kate."

She chewed on her lip, realized her own hands were playing at the tie to her robe. "I... I've never done this before. Something like - I can see you but I can't even touch you."

He grinned, but he looked hurt. Had she hurt his feelings? His hands stilled on his pants. "You can't touch me, no, but you can touch yourself, baby. And you can watch. Remember when I asked you to let me watch?"

"But then you touched me," she murmured. Her eyes were fixed on his hands at his pants. She lifted her gaze, tugging a little at the knot in her robe. "It doesn't work out for me, Rick. Not - alone. Most times I just can't-"

"I'll talk you through it, love. I'm right here, and believe me, watching you - that's erotic as fuck. Anything you do - just seeing how you're watching me right now."

Her eyes jerked up to his again, and she knew she was blushing, and damn it. Damn it. They had done so much together already, this shouldn't be so stupidly intimate. "You first," she told him. "Take off your pants."

"If you take off your robe."

"I said, you first, Castle."

A bloom of lust swamped the blue of his eyes, the harsh bathroom light unable to hide the way his whole body reacted to her. He was already shifting in the bathtub to get a hand under his waistband, shedding his clothes as quickly as he could.

The laptop pitched and tilted, and then he cursed and settled it somewhere - a table? a wire rack over the rim? - and everything was steady. Entirely steady. The angle was better too, and it made his thighs and ass seem thick, powerful, his chest tapering at his ribs and then expanding widely to his shoulders, and even though the proportions were off, a little not quite right, her lips were tingling, her fingers.

He yanked his boxers off and his cock was already hard. And huge.

"Oh, God," she husked.

Castle's hips shifted in the tub and he closed a hand around himself. He leaned forward into her line of sight, blocking all of that naked glory, and she could tell he was pushing up the volume.

Headphones , she thought stupidly, wished he had them so that her words wouldn't echo on tile but in his ears instead. "Castle-"

"Now you," he said roughly, sitting back. He was slowly stroking his balls, his thumb circling the base of his shaft.

She was flushed, hot all over, and she tore at the silk tie of her robe, cursing herself for the knot instead of the bow, cursing all of it as her fingers fumbled. She had to withdraw her arms from the sleeves instead and shuck it over her head, wriggling to get past the knotted belt.

Her hair came undone from the pony tail and spilled on her bare shoulders.

"Oh, fuck, baby, I love your hair, falling down like that when you ride me."

"Oh, God," she moaned, cupped her breast without thinking, pinching her nipple.

"That's it, sweetheart."

She stuttered to a stop, her self-awareness getting in her own way. Rick was fondling his balls with one hand, his other palm pressed to his abs and rubbing slowly up and down as he watched her.

Her lips were swollen. As if she’d been kissed, her lines smudged by the force of his assault.

But he was behind a screen, over an ocean, five hours in the future.

And yet she kneaded her breast and crept a hand down to her sex. “Say something,” she rasped, touching herself. “Oh, God, you have to talk to me-”

“You’re so beautiful, Kate. Baby, lift your hips a little so I can see you. That’s it, sweetheart. There you go. So slick and hot for me.”

She groaned and tilted her head back, fingers cautiously pushing through her folds. But she shivered and had to drop her chin, see him, had to see him, otherwise it was just - the white ceiling and her empty apartment - and that deadened her heart faster than anything.

“Look at me, baby. There you go. Aw, your breasts are mottled pink, like they get when you’re excited.” He grinned but his lips twisted as he circled his cock with his hand. “Fuck. You excited for me, Kate?”

“I’m - getting there,” she muttered, grinding her teeth. She squirmed in the chair, not enough space, not enough flesh, not enough. And she wanted closer, had to be right up against him or this would never work.

“Getting there is good, baby. That’s good. You’re wet now, aren’t you?”

“I’m so wet,” she gasped, hips tilting up.

“Fuck, that’s it. Look at me, Kate, look - fuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Push your fingers inside, no more teasing, you don’t want to be teased right now. Fuck yourself on your fingers-”

She cried out, unavoidably obeying, thrusting two fingers inside herself. But it was tight and cramped and she couldn’t tilt enough to get deep, to get as deep and wide as his cock had been inside her. She needed more.

Beckett dragged her foot out from under her thigh and crashed it on top of the desk, skittering off the keyboard. Castle cursed and his hips bucked in response, and she untangled her other leg and propped her heel up on the other side, straddling the monitor now.

“Fuck, fuck, baby. Oh, fuck me, sweetheart, that’s perfect. You can get so high, so deep that way. Fuck yourself on your fingers, love, just for me.”

She whined and bucked her hips into her fingers, teeth grinding as she tried to reach for it, reach it. Castle was rigid in his own hands, his cock pulsing with the beat of his heart, and she could feel it inside her instead of her fingers, his cock inside her, shoving, making his own way through her raw and abused flesh.

“Fuck me, Castle,” she groaned. “Please. Please. I need-”

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re desperate for me. Do you know what that does to me? To my cock? Seeing you writhing in that chair all because of my voice?”

“Please,” she panted. Please, please-

“Almost there, baby. Almost, gonna fuck you so hard the second I put my hands on you-” He was throttling his cock, his nostrils flaring, thrusting his hips upward. So damn rigid. So hard. His grip looked so damn choking. “Ah, fuck. Fuck, you need to be close. Beckett. Fuck. You need to come.”

“I can’t,” she whimpered. Hips arching, heels digging into the wood. “I can’t. I need you-”

“Fuck. Fuck. I can see your fingers disappearing inside you, your pretty pinks and those dirty brown folds, all the way to your ass. I want to lick you, my mouth right there, sucking at your fingers-”

She cried out, stiffening in the chair, the backs of her thighs burning. She rolled her head to stare at him. “I’m - gonna come. Oh God. Castle. Please.”

“Fuck, Kate, you need to come right now,” Castle growled. “I want to bite your breast and suck on you so hard. Come.”

She screamed as she orgasmed, hand cramping, crushing her clit. Her hips bucked and worked and thrust and writhed, she was tight, too tight, it wasn’t enough, she wasn’t-

“So ripe, so fucking swollen for me, soaked in your own come, the sound of you falling apart, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, I’m coming so hard-”

She tore her gaze to his cock, and she watched as he erupted, the fierce way his hands abused himself as his come shot from the end of his cock, and his face. Fuck. He was staring intently at her, ravenous, swallowing her whole, and all her wound-up, tight tension cracked - splintered - shattered as her second orgasm ripped her right open.

\-----

She had slumped in the chair, her cheek against the rubber-padded arm. She cracked open her eyes at the sound of his voice.

“Ah, hell. Sweetheart. How beautiful you look, legs splayed open with your hand limp there. So beautiful. I would kiss you, love. You know I would, I have before, trail my mouth up your body until I got to those parted lips-”

She blinked, staring at him, rousing.

“Hey, there, sweetheart.” He was smiling, that leonine look in his eyes as he took her in. “Twice?”

She shivered and drew a knee in, her fingers withdrawing. “Twice.”

He purred. And yeah, she couldn’t possibly hear that, but she knew that look on his face, that smug satisfaction. “Twice,” he said with relish. “Good?”

She hummed, not quite agreement but it wasn’t disagreement either. “I’d do that again,” she said, pressing her knees together. Straightening up. “Though it seems kind of - I don’t know.”

“It’s not ideal,” he sighed. His fingers were tracing designs-

oh, fuck

-in his own come.

She bit her lip and sat forward, let her eyes linger on his body. She resisted the urge to touch the screen, knowing it would be glass, static, nothing at all like the heat of his flesh and the tension in his body when she scratched her nails across his stomach.

“But it’s better than nothing,” she finished. “Much better.”

Castle shifted in the tub, his shoulders tight agains the sloped sides. “Yeah,” he said, his throat bobbing. His smile was shy. “Yeah, it is. I - best I could do on short notice, but I’ll work on the connection quality.”

“Plenty of quality, Rick.” She curled her legs up into the chair and shrugged the blanket from the back. Wrinkled her nose. “Sticky.”

“You never seemed to mind before.”

She huffed, flicking her fingers at him. “When you’re here, you’re already rolling on top of me and going again.”

He grinned at that, reached out and dragged the laptop closer. “Yeah. Would be now too if I was there.”

“Might be me on top, that kind of orgasm,” she parried.

Castle let out a breath; she could see how he was struggling not to be aroused. “That kind? You’d come the moment I pushed inside you, that kind.”

She chewed on her lip, nodded shortly.

“I know you, baby.” He leaned forward, arms hooked loosely at his knees. “I know how your body wants it. I had almost nine days to study you, the way you move, how you look when you come the hardest, the noises you make.”

“You think I wasn’t?”

“Wasn’t?”

“Paying attention. Studying you.” She let the blanket fall off one shoulder, working the office chair closer to the desk, closer to the computer. “How your eyes roll back when I suck you off.”

“Heaven. Transported, love.”

“And your fingers tighten - usually gripping my ass - when I rock my hips down on you just that last-”

“Last inch,” he groaned. “Fuck, yes.”

“And when I kegel-”

“What’s that?” he said roughly. “Kegel. What’s that?”

She took a deep breath. “Kegel exercises. Strengthens the pelvic-”

“Oh, fuck, when you squeeze around my cock, in-inside you, that grip, fuck-”

“Are you hard again, Castle?”

“Shit.”

“I think so,” she murmured. “You’d have fucked me hard by now, love. But you always come right back, you always need more.”

“Are you gonna touch yourself or-”

“Just you,” she sighed, her eyes tracing the sight of him. His cock was bobbing as blood filled it again, stiffening. He was rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, hips bumping up a little.

He looked beautiful. All because she was talking to him. A little breast, her nipple hard and tight, one knee drawn up - and her mouth.

The words. “You know I love it when you come back for more,” she rasped. “Dazed and kinda stunned, that blissed feeling, but then there you are, still inside me, Rick, still held inside me and you’re hardening again.”

“I - can’t help it. I can’t control myself when I’m inside you-”

“I know, baby. That’s the best part. I have you so completely. You’re hard for me again right now - and you just came pretty fierce. Didn’t you?”

“Like my guts were ripped out of me.”

“So completely,” she sighed. “If I straddle you, I love bearing down hard. So that your cock hits that perfect angle.”

“You’re so fucking tight like that. On top of me. So fucking tight. It’s exquisite.”

“You should touch yourself,” she said, breathing fast. “You should circle your fingers at your head and squeeze it tightly - like it feels when you first enter me.”

“Fuck.” And he was, his shoulders crowding in, his head dipped towards himself as if he could put his own mouth on his cock. As if he was drawn in by a string. “Fuck, Kate, don’t stop.”

“When I grind down on you,” she growled. “That’s the best feeling. Grinding down, forcing it harder, tighter. Forcing-”

“You like it,” he harshed. “Forced. You want me to tie you up to the bedrail and fuck you hard, straining against the leather.”

“Cuffs,” she croaked.

“Cuffs,” he breathed. “What am I punishing you for, Beckett? What do you deserve?”

“I don’t listen,” she husked. Her sex was wet, and she squirmed, touching herself, two fingers slick again. “I don’t do what you want me to.”

“The cuffs rattle every time you yank on them,” he groaned. His eyes caught hers. She rubbed herself harder, hips jerking. He was strangling the head of his cock with his whole hand. “I drag my hand down your body and shove your thighs apart.”

Her legs dropped open, her fingers working herself without pause. “My breasts-”

“You want me so badly. I won’t touch your breasts. I won’t do it. You beg me-”

“Please, fuck, please-”

“But this is your punishment. You deserve this. What you did. This is serious, Beckett. You’re going to fucking take me.”

“Just let me come, just please let me come-”

“How fucking hard your thighs are, trembling for me. You know what I like to do to punish you? Crush your clit with my thumb and suck-”

She cried out, her orgasm snatching her up by its jaws. Shaking her.

“Kate, don’t stop,” he groaned. “Don’t stop, baby. I’m so close.”

She lifted a trembling hand to the screen. “You fuck me right through my orgasm and keep on going. You don’t stop, you never stop,” she cried. “Fuck me, Castle, fuck me hard-”

“Oh, God-”

“Make me,” she growled. “Give me what I deserve-”

“Fuck. Fuck, Beckett, you deserve everything.” And then he seized, that terrible stillness like death, and then his climax crashed over him, that full-body rush that seemed to be pulled right out by the roots, his toes curling, his bellow echoing on tile.

“That’s it, baby, so good, it’s so good,” she called. “Pump yourself as you come, get it all out, I want all of it.”

“Ah, fuck,” he groaned. He was watching her, eyes feverish, chafing his cock with his hand.

She touched her fingers to her lips. “I wish it was my mouth,” she sighed.

He snarled, his hips jagging sideways, and he ejaculated hard one last time.

Kate licked her fingers for the taste of herself, and it almost tasted like him.

\-----

He was still breathing hard and canted in the bathtub when she shrugged the blanket around her torso, gathered herself back together like pieces - here and there - like armor.

"You with me?" she said, rubbing two fingers over her lips as she watched him. Everything felt sensitive, aware, that sensation she'd had on the subway when she had first known he was following her. That first look, and knowing immediately that she would confront him and that it would feel like power for once, having some kind of power. "Riiiick."

He blinked dazedly at her and shifted forward, moving as if underwater, that same expression on his face that he'd had in the shower that last night together.

Worship.

It heightened - everything. Her breasts were heavy and her nipples rubbed the fleece, her fingers were tingling, her lips swollen - both places, swollen and raw. His regard for her.

"I'm with you," he husked, but the way he said it-

Matched emphasis on the pronouns, part of her realized, cataloged, a holdover from studying interrogation tactics at the police academy. He had placed equal stress on I'm and you as if mating them. Not with. The two of them.

Not answering the question she'd asked, but the one she hadn't known she had wanted answered.

"You're with me," she affirmed. You and me.

"Tell me a story," he mumbled. He was cradling the laptop on his chest, all weird angles, like he was curling up in the bath tub with it.

"No, sweetheart. Clean yourself up first," she sighed. "I'm okay with sticky, but you don't need to be in that bath tub all night."

His face lit up, though she didn't understand why, but he did shift the laptop back onto the ledge - it was a wire basket, she could see now, the kind that hung over the rim and offered a place to put a book, soap, whatever. "I'll jump out and rinse out the tub - um - myself a little. Wanna watch me?"

She grinned back. "Watch you shower? Yeah, course. Just don't get the laptop wet. Leave me hanging."

His chest puffed up, mock indignation. Little boy pride. "I am not leaving you hanging, Kate Beckett. You came three times."

"Mm."

"What?" he insisted, already climbing out of the tub and moving the laptop to the - oh, the toilet lid. Really, Castle? Whatever. He'd have to get used to it, stuck there with all those other guys. "Beckett, what was that noise for? You don't fake it, so I know I'm right."

"Think it was more like four, Richard."

His face glowed. "Four? Really? When-"

"Just at the end there. Little - sparks. Mm, you know, like when I come after you come inside me."

"You what?"

She laughed, sat up a little straighter, leaning into the computer. "You didn't know?"

"Every time?"

"Not every time," she huffed. "Just - most of the time. It's not even a - well, I mean, it's what I would have called an orgasm back - you know - um - before I met you."

And, okay, now he looked insufferably proud of himself. "Really."

"Shut up."

"No, please. Continue."

"Take your shower, you arrogant bastard."

He grinned and actually shook his ass at her, turning to twist on the faucet. There was a European-style handheld, much like the one in her own clawfoot, though hers was mounted, and he threw her looks over his shoulder as he stepped in, like he was parading around for her.

"Stupid peacock," she muttered.

But of course he didn't hear her. He just scrubbed his chest with a bar of soap, wriggled his ass like she cared at all about the water coursing off those tight curves.

Okay, maybe she did.

Kate settled into her chair to wait, running a hand through her hair, shifting to feel the wetness between her legs. Watching him.

She had nowhere special to be anyway.

\-----

He was scrubbing his chest with the same damn towel he'd used to line the tub for their makeout session. (Makeout? Fuck, more like mutual masturbation. Mutual need. Story-telling time.)

"Gross, Castle."

"It's the only clean one I got."

"It's not clean," she shot back. She was sitting on her feet in the chair; she'd found herself shifting while he'd showered, as if to get a better look, the camera's angle cutting off the top of his head, his elbow as he raised his arm. And she was still kind of working herself up here.

"It's clean enough."

She rolled her eyes.

"I can hear you rolling your eyes at me. You wanna come over here and do my laundry, Beckett, or what?"

"Or what," she snarked. "I wouldn't do your laundry if you were here, you asshole."

He pouted but tossed the towel to the floor - definitely not clean; she really hoped he did the fucking laundry - and then he came towards the laptop, let her see everything as he slowly pulled on his sweat pants again.

"Is it cold there?" she asked. Idle, really, but he yelped and cupped his cock in his hand, as if brandishing it.

"Does this look shrunken to you? But yeah, fuck, it's pretty cold, I think."

"You think."

He shrugged, releasing himself (she was touching herself again, beneath the blanket, idle that too, but it sent little wonderful sparks all through her as she watched him handle his own body with such careless possession. He handled her like that too sometimes.)

"You don't know if it's cold?"

"Other than the frank and beans shriveling up? Naw. I mean, it doesn't feel it. The place here - it's a shithole, honestly, so I’m not sure they even have heat - but I'm used to shitholes."

"It really is gross, Castle," she confessed, shaking her head. "Surprised you haven't caught tetanus or something by now, living in places like that."

He grinned, cocked his head. "Told you I don't get sick."

"Tetanus isn't sick," she laughed, leaning in, propping her elbows on the desk. The video had a strange lag to it now, like she was sucking up all her bandwidth. "It just happens."

"No," he said, sly little smile. "I don't get tetanus either. Or the black plague, which this place would clearly give anyone." He was running his hands through his wet hair and flicking the water off onto the floor. Clearly ready to leave the nasty bathroom.

"Go," she said. "Curl up in your mangy sleeping bag-"

“It’s not mangy.” He had cradled the laptop against his chest, and the angle now made it seem like he was right there, bringing her in against him, looking down into her eyes. “It’s serviceable, baby. Big enough for two.”

“Better not be two.”

He flashed her an unrepentant grin even while the cold horror of her unbidden words circled down the drain of her stupid, stupid mouth. What the fuck. Of course there would be two - or there would be times when he had to - he was a spy. She had seen James Bond movies. Castle would get the job done; he had better get the job done.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Big enough for two then carry me into bed with you.”

His grin widened even further. “Wanna go for a tour, baby? I’ll walk you through our place.”

“Your place with the drunk assholes.”

“Yup.” Castle was spinning the laptop around so fast her stomach rolled, but maybe it was confrontation with a place entirely unlike what she knew of Richard. Up close and personal with a cover story she couldn’t quite unthread from the Castle of it all.

He was coming out of the bathroom and moving down a short, narrow hall. Looked like he had to duck.

“This is an old building. Built in the 1800s-”

“Are you really giving me a guided tour?”

“Shut up, Beckett, I’m working here.” He dropped his hand in front of the camera and gave her the finger, and she laughed, bubbled up with an amusement that might be slightly relieved. That was definitely Rick. “As I was saying, built in the 1800s for a modern influx of peasants looking for work-”

“Potato blight,” she interrupted.

“Smart is sexy, Beckett. But don’t make me lose my train of thought.”

“Fuck off.”

“See, yes, that’s exactly what will happen if you keep whispering dirty historical facts in my ear.”

She laughed again, sinking her chin down into the cradle of her elbow, watching him parade her through the stone and plaster hall and out into the living room.

“This is the Ballymun district, which is home to me-” Not him, but Michael, Mikey, his cover, she supposed. “-and I’m good as gold walking the streets, but you know, neighbors cache weapons for the IRA and guy two flats over was arrested an hour after I got here.”

His sleeping bag was stretched across a horrid plaid couch with orange racing stripes down the side, and she could see - as he panned like a smug asshole - a billiards table that took up most of the tight space, as well as a swinging overhead light on a chain, two sad leather chairs, and an open doorway.

“What’s through there?”

“Kitchen. Come on, I’ll show you. No stone left unturned.” The laptop tilted as he flipped on the light switch. The kitchen was worse than the bathroom, plates stacked in the sink and over counters, food left out, boxes of cereal open and abandoned, loads of take-away containers with their hardened remains in view. “Yeah, let’s not linger. Let’s just say the beer is well-stocked.” The light flipped off and she was dizzy again as he spun back to the living room and then-

“Is that a fuzball table?” she laughed. “Pool and fuzball in that tiny little living room.”

“I should probably sleep on the pool table - cleanest thing in this place. Rufus is a fucking fanatic about his game.” The Irish brogue was back, soft, charming. It made goose bumps on her arms, raised the hair on the back of her neck, how he slid right into it, how natural it was for him to live a lie.

“Is that another door?”

“That’s the master. Rufus and his brother. But it’s a weird configuration, because if I took you through there, there’s a door at the other end of his room that pops back out onto the hall. And then besides the bathroom, here, is this room-”

She saw him take her through the hallway again, saw the flash of the bathroom tile, and then he was opening a second door that had been behind him when he’d walked out of the bathroom first thing. A circuitous tour of the place.

“This is Liam’s room,” Castle said, voice low, nearly a hum on the speakers. “You can see why now.”

At first she didn’t catch his oblique reference to his mission, but then she saw the protest posters and equipment strewn around Liam’s room - Liam himself passed out on his unmade bed, head hanging over one end, mouth open.

Neighbors weren’t the only ones stockpiling weapons for the IRA. Shit. She thought she even saw a fucking over-the-shoulder.

Castle eased the door shut and hustled back through hallway, turning the laptop around to his face again.

“Baby, no, don’t look like that. I know what I’m doing.”

Her stomach flipped over and she scrubbed a hand down her face, sitting up straighter. “No, I know. I just - didn’t expect it so - there.”

“In your face, you mean.” He cradled the laptop so that she had that impression, all over again, of being brought up against his chest. “This is - well, the point, love.”

“How’d you - um - get to know him so fast?”

“Previous contacts. Rufus. A few words about my time in Mountjoy. Prison.”

“Oh.” She was - not used to this from him. The way he slid in and out of it, the intimacy of face to face with no way to touch him, ground herself in his body, but all the same electric connection coming through.

And for this - strange man. This wasn’t Rick, not in this moment, but even as she shivered with the thought of who he might really be under all those layers, he was mangling the sleeping bag as he crawled in, getting comfortable, his face the same eager face he’d shown her when they’d slept together that first night.

“Comfy?” he said, grinning again. Eyes blue even in the dim light of the computer’s own glow.

“Me? No. I’m at my desk, Cas-” She shook her head, dropped the name.

“No, don’t,” he murmured, eyes sad. “They’re all passed out. I told you. It’s okay, love.”

“I - get it,” she said. But it wasn’t that she didn’t want to call him by the name he’d given her, she just - she could see where this would be a bad habit, and dangerous to him, should she forget or slip.

This was dangerous work. Liam had a bedroom full of armament you couldn’t just get off the street, not like that, and he wanted her to call him Castle over the speakers?

“You should get headphones,” she said finally. “Me too, maybe. Keep it - between us. Just us.”

“I should’ve set this up with a laptop on your end,” he sighed. “I wish I were in bed with you right now.”

Her sternum cracked open, vital organs spilling out. “Yeah,” she admitted. But it was all too messy. “Easier to - you know - if I was in bed.”

“You shy? Can’t even say it?”

“I’m not being shy. What I told you to do to yourself was hardly shy.”

“Then say it.”

“Fine. It would be easier to fingerfuck if I was in bed, propped on pillows. Better angle of penetration. And you’d see more of me if I settled the laptop between my legs on the mattress.”

“Fuck. I hate myself for not thinking of a laptop sooner.”

“Good. Because right now I’m hating you for it too,” she snapped out. And then she tossed the blanket off her lap and spread her thighs for him, showed him how she’d been touching herself all this time, for most of this time. “Just talk to me, Rick.”

“Well, fuck. I really fucking want that laptop. Fuck, baby, you’re so wet. I can hear the noises you’re making with your fingers.”

“Liar.” She was gasping though. She was on the edge of something. It’d been building with every stupid grin and smart-ass comment, and if she weren’t careful, the sound of his voice alone could be the only trigger she would need. “Talk, Castle.”

“How does it feel, sweetheart? Your fingers rubbing and plunging inside you.”

“Desperate,” she gritted out.

“Yeah, you are, so desperate for that release. Just one more, because it’s not at all the same as being fucked, is it? It’s not the same and the orgasms aren’t as good, because in the end I’m not the one fucking you.”

“Fuck, this isn’t sexy, Rick. Get on with-”

“It’s painfully sexy. It’s pornographic, Beckett. Can you blame me for wanting to prolong it a little?”

She was already past the point of muscle fatigue, her arm shaking, fingers cramping.

“Fine,” he sighed. His breath along the speakers so that she could almost imagine him blowing against her clit. “Beckett, grab your breast.”

She was there before he finished, torquing her nipple viciously. Twisting, pinching. Her hips jostled her foot from the chair and she slung her leg over the arm.

“Fuck, you’re on display for me. Aren’t you, baby? You like it when you’re being watched. You like knowing the lights are blazing and maybe you didn’t close the blinds all the way and someone out there could see you, catch sight of your head thrown back like that and your breasts bobbing - down there on the street, just that glimpse - and how they would know what you were doing to yourself. How they’d wonder, start to imagine, were you watching porn, so overcome you had to touch yourself?”

“Fuck,” she gasped, chest rising. Her fingers weren’t even close but his words put pictures in her head that made her grind into her hand.

“I’d yank the blinds up, all the way, let the streetlamps spill in. Turn around and haul you out of that chair, shove you up against the glass-”

“Oh, God. Rick.”

“Press your knees to the cold window pane, hold you open for me, and then I would take great pleasure in fucking you in front of the whole fucking world.”

She cried out, her orgasm snatched right out from under her only to come smashing back inside her, flying apart on the intensity of the story he’d built in her head.

\-----

“You’re tired,” he said softly.

She roused and shook her head. “No, not really. Long day.”

“I’d say so. You were up with me this morning, and then work on top of that.”

“I’m fine,” she said, shifting in the chair as she propped her head on her hand. Scratched at her scalp as she fought a yawn. “It’s not that late.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Your time,” she said back. “My-”

“No, love. Three your time.”

She glanced to the computer clock. “Shit. I didn’t mean to - Castle. It’s got to be sunrise over there. You were up the same-”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to sleep.”

“Everyone has to sleep,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. But he wasn’t paying attention, his neck craned as he looked behind him.

“Hey, you’re right. Sun’s coming up. Look.” He was scrambling out from the sleeping bag and taking the laptop with him. She saw his elbow and forearm, the width of his chest, and then the grimy plastic blinds. He pulled the slats down, carelessly, and gave her a view.

He must be five floors up, and the buildings nearby were squatty, brick, but in the twilight, the landscape was washed out, colorless but for the sky.

The sun was a white disc hanging low, just having broken from the earth, and the thin clouds gave off brilliant pinks and oranges, the smear of purple across the horizon.

“It’s - beautiful,” she sighed.

For a moment, the sight lingered - Castle lingered - and then he was turning the laptop back around to himself, cradling it.

Cradling her.

Three in the morning. They had talked - teased, edged - all night.

“You need sleep, Beckett,” he said quietly. “And as much as I’d love to stay right here, I’ve had to plug in this laptop so many damn times it’s about to burn up.”

It felt like an excuse. But she sat up straighter, folded her hands in her lap, shoulders tight. “No. I know. And you’ve - got a lot on your plate.” Be careful. “You need to go. I need to go.”

“Baby,” he sighed.

“No,” she got out, hand moving to the mouse. “Don’t. It’s sunrise - it’s late.”

But he still had control of her computer. His throat bobbed and he sank back down to the couch, put the laptop on his lap where it belonged. “It is, yeah. Kate...”

“Don’t.” Don’t look at me like that.

But his lips twisted, a feral grin taking over his face. “You’re pretty damn good at talking dirty, you know. Might have a calling, Beckett.”

She bit her lip, pressing her smile flat. “Shut up.”

“You liked it.”

“Of course I fucking liked it. Don’t be an ass.”

“Your voice pitches low, husky, like you’re caressing my cock with your words.”

“Shut up,” she huffed, but the laugh struggled up. “You’re such a blatant bully.”

“You like that too,” he growled. “My sexy American girlfriend.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already did, love. Now say good-night to me. I’m gonna close down the connection.”

“Good bye, Castle.”

She saw her mouse moving on the screen, him taking over. But he glanced up at her, winked. “Until - next time.”

“In your dreams.”

“Most assuredly. Fuck. The things I’ve seen. I took a screenshot of your cunt.”

“You fucking bastard.”

A waggle of his eyebrows and then he pulled her fucking panties out from the sleeping bag, dangled them. “They still smell like you. Hope it lasts, but you might need to overnight me a package-”

“Fuck off.”

“Suppose that’s a ‘good night’ in and of itself,” he grinned. But it dropped, and he sighed. “Time to go. None of that no you hang up first shit, Beckett. I’ll see you-” He paused, swallowed. “I don’t - really know.” His brow creased. “I can’t-”

“I don’t need promises,” she muttered. “I don’t need you calling me and keeping me up all night either. You do your job and you let me do mine.”

“Did I say I’ve made you my job? I’m getting pretty damn good at it too. Made you come five times.”

“Six.”

“Shit. Again, I missed it.”

“And that’s how we end this. Good bye, Richard.” She violently shook the mouse but it wouldn’t move for her.

And then the whole screen went black, and she let out a little cry, surprised it was over just that fast.

It was over.

\-----


End file.
